When Pranks Go Wrong
by In the House
Summary: Set during the Greater Good. Cuddy's actions have unintended consequences. Will be Huddy as well as House/Wilson and Wilson/Cuddy strong friendships. Mentions physical abuse.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.

My first House fic, so be nice. I hope I've got them in character, but really, I thought that Cuddy was so OOC during this episode already that there's not much further down to go. I'm definitely a Huddy fan, but I like strong Cuddy, not pathetic teenager Cuddy like in parts of S5.

(H/C)

"First, her lung starts to deflate like me after a cold shower; next, her liver starts to bleed like me after . . . "

The metaphor was never to be completed. House abruptly pitched forward and made a desperate and futile attempt to regain his balance for a step or two, careening into the office like a broken windmill, but could not recover without the help of his cane, which had flown out of his hand and landed on the carpet of the office in front of him. Without its aid and with his right thigh already annoyed even pre-stumble from the activities of the day, he never had a chance. He crashed down hard on the office floor, his head hitting the corner of his desk as he fell.

The team was frozen for a second in stunned amazement. Foreman was the first to move. The First Commandment of House was not ever to express any physical concern for him, but hopefully their boss would forgive a minor sin at the moment. "You okay?" He stepped into the office and knelt beside the prone diagnostician.

The practical-minded Taub stooped in the doorway. He'd seen House stumble at times because of his leg – they all had – but there had been nothing natural about that fall. "Someone set a trip wire," he stated in disbelief. Kutner and Thirteen stared down at the offending silver booby trap.

"Shit!" Foreman cut off their fall differential before it could go any further. His usually unflappable tone had a note of urgency, and the team immediately went to join him, stepping carefully over the wire in the doorway.

Foreman had rolled House over onto his back, revealing blood trickling down from a laceration surrounded by an already bruising area on his left temple. The diagnostician's piercing blue eyes were shut, but Foreman didn't need that confirmation that he was unconscious. The fact that House hadn't pulled away or snapped off a sarcastic deflection when Foreman first touched him had been proof enough. Kutner knelt down on House's other side, while Taub hurried around the desk to pick up the phone. "We need a team in Dr. House's office. He's fallen and been hurt."

A quick scramble through his pockets revealed a penlight, and Foreman pulled up one eyelid and then the other, checking the reaction of the pupils. "He's got a concussion. At least a concussion. He hit that desk pretty hard."

On House's other side, Kutner had taken his boss's pulse and respirations, verifying the ABCs of airway, breathing, and circulation, and was now looking for any other obvious injuries. His search stopped at the left wrist, which was already swelling. "Did he land with this wrist outstretched?" He probed it gently. "I'm pretty sure it's broken." They all noted that House didn't react to the examination. "We need to get x-rays. And an MRI." Kutner carefully removed House's watch from the injured extremity and pocketed it.

Taub suddenly moved away from the desk. "Better get that trip wire taken down before the team runs a gurney into it and we wind up with more patients." He knelt again at the doorway, studying how it had been attached. "Does anybody have pliers or something similar?"

Kutner immediately pulled out a fat Swiss Army knife. "26 functions," he said proudly, tossing it to Taub. The boyish grin faded as he looked back down at their boss, taking his pulse again to reassure himself it was strong and steady. He once again inspected the injured wrist, deliberately putting more pressure on it this time. House didn't move.

Thirteen hadn't said anything or assisted them since the fall, and Foreman glanced up at her. Her eyes were slightly wide as she looked down at her boss, and he could almost hear the thought. Not only were people dying before their time of incurable diseases, whether cancer or Huntington's, but life itself was uncertain and dangerous. No guarantees anywhere. No firm ground. "You okay?" he asked softly.

She blinked. "Fine," she said firmly. Kutner looked from one of them to the other in a movement that suddenly reminded both of them of a miniature version of House. .

The elevator down the hall dinged, and the team from the ER hurried out, pushing a gurney. "Wait a minute!" Taub ordered. "Okay, got it." He stood with the glistening silver wire in his hand, and the team pushed the gurney on into the office.

"What happened?"

"He fell into the office and hit his head on the corner of his desk. Seems to have broken his left wrist, too. Vitals stable, but he's not responding to pain." Foreman gave the report steadily, efficiently.

One of the men looked at the silver wire Taub was holding. "What's that?"

"It's a trip wire," Taub replied.

"Someone actually . . ." The words trailed off at Foreman's firm look. "Right, this isn't the time. Let's get him down to triage."

House always seemed larger than life, but he was surprisingly easy to lift onto the gurney with several people helping. Once he was strapped into place, the gurney was rolled back through the door through which he had tripped a few minutes ago, and they headed for the ER. Foreman and Kutner flanked the gurney, and Thirteen shook herself out of her daze and headed after them.

Taub was left alone. He stood by the office door, still holding the trip wire, looking at it, looking at the cane lying forgotten in the floor, and completing the differential in his mind. House was legendary for his biting sarcasm as well as his medical skill, and no doubt many at the hospital would have enjoyed taking him down a peg or two, literally, but they would have been too scared of the man himself to do it. No, the only possible answer Taub was coming up with was the one which he himself could not believe.

He left the office and turned away from the elevator, heading down to inform Wilson.

(H/C)

Cuddy sat at her desk, doing paperwork while glancing up at Rachel-cam regularly. The phone rang, and she picked it up smoothly, efficiently, the administrator who WAS going to be in perfect control of her hospital, and her new mother duties, and her life in spite of her jerk of an employee.

"Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House has just been brought into the ER."

She straightened abruptly, nearly knocking her current file in the floor. "Is he okay? What happened?"

"He fell in his office, hit his head pretty hard, broke his wrist. We're still evaluating the head injury, but he's totally unresponsive. He's about to go for an MRI. Would you believe somebody set a trip wire in his office? Dr. Cuddy, are you there?"

Cuddy swallowed. "Yes, I am. Thank you for informing me. Please keep me posted and let me know what the MRI results show."

"Will do." The ER attendant hung up, but Cuddy didn't until the phone started to beep at her in annoyance. She replaced it in the cradle with stiff, wooden movements and then looked again from the files to Rachel on the monitor to the desk that House had given her and that she had never thanked him for. Yes, he was arrogant, annoying, childish at times, biting in his remarks, pushing far beyond accepted limits, but she realized suddenly that he hadn't in fact brought her down to his level. No, she had gone below his level all on her own. He never would have done what she just had, would never risk physically hurting someone unless medically needed to help in a diagnosis.

Cuddy buried her face in her hands. "Who have I become?" she asked herself. She took deep breaths until she felt back in at least fragile control, and then she pushed her chair back, stood, and left the office, heading for radiology.


	2. Chapter 2

Here's chapter 2. Thanks for the great reviews, everybody!

House lay totally still in the hospital bed, monitors beeping reassuringly, but they alone provided the signs of life. He still hadn't moved. His left wrist had a simple fracture and would not need surgery, fortunately; it had been casted and lay propped up on a pillow. The laceration down his left temple had been sutured, but the bruise stood out ugly around it. Cuddy couldn't take her eyes off it. It was a badge of idiocy - for once, not of his. Fortunately, he hadn't fractured his skull again in his fall, although he did have a nasty concussion. The only other damage found was to his right thigh, which was somewhat swollen and inflamed, whether from the fall in his office, the stairs earlier, or both. Cuddy wondered if he had subconsciously or intentionally fallen to the left when he knew he was going down in a last-ditch effort to spare his weakened right leg. She sighed. With House's team practically chased away by her to deal with their patient and Foreman acting as an inadequate replacement leader, she finally had time with House to process the full consequences of her actions.

Not quite alone, though. Wilson paced the room behind her in quick, agitated steps, more upset than she had seen him since Amber's death. "What the HELL were you thinking?"

Cuddy's shoulders were stooped, her hands clenched on the bed rail. "I wasn't," she admitted softly.

"A trip wire! You DELIBERATELY placed a trip wire in the office of your DISABLED employee!"

"I didn't think he'd really get hurt," she said, but she knew how inadequate that was as an excuse. What the hell had she been thinking?

"What did you THINK would happen?" Wilson stopped on the other side of the bed, his eyes drilling into her with an intensity that most of the hospital staff wouldn't have believed the oncologist was capable of bringing to bear on a target.

"I . . . I don't know." In marked contrast to Wilson, her voice was muffled, barely audible. "I wanted . . ."

"What? WHAT? To kill him?"

"NO!" That brought an edge into her voice, but her eyes dropped again in the next second to avoid meeting Wilson's gaze and were drawn back magnetically to the ugly bruise and sutured gash across House's temple. "I swear, I didn't think he would get hurt. He seems so untouchable. Nothing gets to him."

Wilson pivoted sharply and resumed wearing a canyon into the floor tiles. "You know he's not. His feelings run deep, but he just buries them. But we're not just talking about emotions, Cuddy. Physically, you hurt him. You went through the infarction with him. How could you turn on him physically after seeing him then?"

Her voice was soft again. "I wasn't thinking," she repeated. "I wanted to get even with him for . . ."

Wilson stopped abruptly. "This isn't about Rachel. And it's not about House; he hasn't changed. It's about you, isn't it? You finally got what you wanted, and you realized that it wasn't quite the only thing you wanted after all."

She had no answer for a few minutes. "I love Rachel," she said finally. "We're finally getting a connection . . ." She trailed off. He was right, damn him. Even home with Rachel, she had missed the job. She had missed him. Even while wanting to be home to bond with her daughter, even after the breakthrough and connection with Rachel, she had felt guilty for wondering how the hospital was running without her. In a way, she hadn't wanted Cameron to succeed.

Wilson resumed his pacing track. "You know, he never would have done something like this to you. Never. And you have two good legs."

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry." She stared at that accusing suture line down House's temple, holding things together. Was there any way to suture her own life back together, any way to rewind the clock? She didn't regret Rachel, but she regretted so much else.

"Tell it to him."

"I will. The minute he wakes up, I'll apologize. I just hope he'll forgive me."

Wilson stopped again, looking at her. "He will." The unfinished second half of that sentence hung in mid air between them. Cuddy knew that she had lost a lot of respect in Wilson's eyes today - and rightfully so.

The sound of a beeper going off shattered the moment, making both of them jump and give a quick frightened glance toward the bed before they realized simultaneously that it wasn't a monitor alarm. Both checked their pagers. It was Wilson's. He read the text and sighed, looking from Cuddy to House. "Are you sure he's safe if I leave you alone with him?" he asked, unable to keep a slight edge out of his voice even now, although she looked anything but dangerous at the moment. More like broken.

Her eyes fell. She deserved his anger on behalf of his friend. "I won't hurt him anymore," she said softly. He nodded and left the room.

Finally alone, Cuddy stepped up closer to House's head, adjusting his arm on the pillow, reaching out to trace the swollen, angry outlines of the bruise. "I'm so sorry," she said. "This isn't about you. I'm sorry." She touched the other side of his head, the healed fracture from the bus crash, and suddenly remembered her fury toward Wilson over the deep brain stimulation. Wilson at least had had a medical purpose, however insane, in what he had done to House. Cuddy herself had far less excuse. She couldn't blame the oncologist for his anger. "I'm sorry," she said again. "It's just that I'm afraid of not being in control of everything. What if I'm not the perfect mother or the perfect administrator?" She almost smiled as she imagined his response to that, telling her in no uncertain terms how much she had sucked at times in her professional duties - and by telling her so, relieving her of the awful burden of the expectation of perfection. "Oh, House, I'm sorry." She touched his face softly. "And I'm going to keep apologizing for as long as it takes you to wake up, so if you're getting tired of hearing it, just go ahead and open those eyes and get it over with." His eyes stayed shut, and the monitors continued to beep softly, steadily. She looked at his frighteningly still, bruised face and then looked up at the screen, reassuring herself. "And one more thing, House. Thank you for the desk."


	3. Chapter 3

Here's chapter 3. Glad people are enjoying it! Oh and for the purposes of this story, I'm ignoring the Foreteen subplot in the episode, so Thirteen isn't having her own immediate health crisis. The main plot was much more interesting to play with.

(H/C)

"Thank you so much," Cuddy said. "I'm sorry, but sometimes this is going to happen with my job. Thank you for understanding." She snapped her cell phone shut and looked over at House. "And thank YOU for making me realize that I do need some kind of emergency contingency babysitting plan for Rachel when the hospital goes crazy and I have to stay late. It will happen once in a while. It won't even always involve you." She forced the note of cheerfulness into her voice as she stepped up to the bedside and studied him. He still hadn't moved, and she was starting to get even more worried. If he wasn't responding in a few more hours, she'd have the MRI repeated to see if anything had changed, but she had studied the films herself, as well as called in a consult with the head of neurosurgery. A bad concussion, but no dangerous levels of intracranial pressure, no bleed. His vitals had been absolutely stable and had remained so. The only prescription was time and rest. "You know, I'm not used to having a one-way conversation with you. You need to keep up your end better." She reached out again to trace his sutures, and the forced banter faded out of her voice like a deflating balloon. "I'm sorry, House."

She lost track of how long she stood there, studying him as she rarely got the chance to. The times that he was both still and without his defensive mask snapped in place were rare indeed. The events of the bus crash and aftermath had taken a toll on him, his hair and scruff with more silver running through them, the lines around his eyes a little more pronounced, his lean frame even thinner. Her greatest fear with him had always been that one time, he would push pursuit of a puzzle too far, would run past his own limits and irreparably break. "You need to start taking better care of yourself," she scolded him softly, then remembered again who had put him in this bed now in the first place. "I'm sorry," she repeated for probably the hundredth time. She turned away from him, suddenly frightened all over again by how frail and tired he looked, and she walked to the glass door and peered through the mostly drawn blinds. The day shift was just in the process of leaving, new staff coming on, reports being made. Her hospital. Her world. And now Rachel. Why wasn't she content with it?

The rhythm of steady beeps from the monitor behind her suddenly bobbled, and she spun around and rushed over to his side. "House?" His eyes were still shut, but his heart rate and respirations had both picked up. "Are you awake? Are you in pain?" The figures on the monitor continued to climb, the rhythm a bit uneven. "House!" She reached out to touch him, and his head turned slightly, his lips moving. She bent over closer to hear his almost inaudible words and quickly realized that he wasn't awake. He was dreaming.

"No. . . don't push me . . . don't make me fall." The numbers on the screen were approaching concerning levels.

"House! Wake up. You're having a dream; it's okay."

"I'm sorry, Dad. . . I'm sorry. Don't push me." Cuddy froze for a second, stunned, then discarded the words to be processed later. Right now, she had to get him calmed down.

"House! You're in the hospital. Come on, wake up. You're safe. I'm here." She reached out to touch him, and in the same moment, he moved his left arm abruptly, flailing out against some unseen foe. The extra weight of the cast as his arm fell off the pillow and moved across his body seemed to freak him out more, and he struck out frantically with it, now using his right arm, too, pulling on the IV line in that hand.

"Nurse!" Cuddy called sharply, hitting the button. "I need more hands in here." She didn't want to have to sedate him with his head injury, but he was going to hurt himself if things kept escalating. "House!" She managed to catch both arms firmly and push them back against his body. "GREG! Be STILL!" she commanded sharply.

The effect was startling. Instantly, he stopped fighting his unseen foe. In fact, he seemed to sink back into the mattress, trying only to retreat but otherwise totally passive. The monitors told their own tale, though, and the numbers continued to rise. He was sweating now. Cuddy, holding his arms still, stared at his face, straight at a look she had never thought she'd see on House: Terror. His eyes were still closed. On impulse, Cuddy released the pressure on his arms a bit, running her hands gently up and down them instead of trying by pure force to hold him still. She schooled her voice back down into soothing, quiet range from her frantic command a minute before. "Easy, House. It's okay. You're dreaming, that's all it is. Just a dream." She even started humming softly, one of the lullabies she had sung to Rachel just last night. Music had always seemed to reach him. She alternated between looking at the monitors and looking at his face as she never stopped her gentle touch, or the soft words interspersed in the tune. "It's okay. Nothing but a dream. Everything is all right. Take it easy." His uneven breathing slowly leveled out, and the figures on the monitor gradually started to come down. Finally, Cuddy felt her own heart rate and BP begin to decrease. She rearranged his left arm on the pillow and checked the IV in his right, then stepped up to touch his face gently. "It's okay, House. You're safe now. Just a dream." Through all of the episode, his eyes hadn't opened, and she didn't think he'd ever truly woken up.

"Did you need something, Dr. Cuddy?" Cuddy started at the voice of the nurse at her elbow.

"High time you showed up. Is that standard response time to a call?" She straightened up and nailed the poor nurse with her administrator's eye.

"I'm sorry. We were changing shifts, and things were hectic for a bit." The nurse looked past Cuddy at the monitor screen. "Did you need something?"

"A pair of hands would have been nice five minutes ago. He just had a nightmare. He's okay now, I think." The nurse was already retreating, not wanting to spend any more time than she had to with Cuddy in her current mood.

Cuddy turned back to study House. All figures back to baseline, his eyes still closed, his face more or less peaceful once again. "It's okay now," she repeated. "You're okay." She went to the bathroom to get a washcloth and wiped the sweat off his face, careful of the stitched laceration. Then, she picked up the chart from the foot of his bed, looking back through it for something she'd discounted at the time. There on the x-ray report of his left wrist was the note: "Old fracture of the mid radius, well healed, 4 inches above current injury." The radiologist had dismissed it once he'd determined it would not impact the current distal radius fracture. Probably a childhood injury, he had said, and Cuddy and Wilson had both accepted it, more concerned with the current damage. Kids got hurt all the time, after all.

"Don't push me. Don't make me fall." House's words replayed in her mind. Words he had addressed to his father. Did he already have a long-ago memory surrounding an intentional fall and breaking his arm, one that his mind now, knowing that something had tripped him in his office, was replaying in his subconscious effort to make sense of things? Cuddy cringed, realizing even more that her harmless prank earlier in the day had not been a prank to him, any more than it had been harmless.

She reached over to stroke his hair again. "Oh God, House, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She resumed her humming, even though he seemed totally out once again. "You can wake up any time you want. Your father is dead. We're in PPTH, and you fell in your office. It was my fault. I'm sorry. You're going to be fine."

"How's he doing?" Foreman pushed the glass door open, looking decidedly frazzled. Apparently, the afternoon of playing House hadn't been one he'd enjoyed.

"Still hasn't regained consciousness. He did have a nightmare a little while ago, I think, but he never was responsive, and I don't think he ever woke up."

Foreman walked across to the bed and pulled out his penlight, checking House's pupils. "Pupils are reacting. He's probably just taking a while to wake up. That was quite a crack on the head he took. Wonder who actually had the balls to set a trip wire on him?"

Cuddy straightened up, deflecting in a way that would have done House proud. "How's the patient?"

The other doctor shook his head. "We're running around in circles, I think. Can't make anything fit. The team is doing more tests." He reached out to House's left temple, tracing the perimeter of the bruise and then lightly pushing on it. House shifted slightly, withdrawing from the pressure. "He's responding to pain now. He's not awake, but he's not as far out as he was earlier." He applied the test again, with the same result.

"Don't," Cuddy said. "Don't try to wake him up by hurting him. He's been through enough pain."

Foreman's beeper went off. He read the text, muttered "damn," and departed briskly.

"Damn," Cuddy repeated. "Well, House, I think that's about as good a summary of this day as we're going to get. He looked pretty stressed. The trouble with trying to be you is that nobody else can be." She resumed stroking his hair. "I'm sorry."

Wilson came by 30 minutes later, still angry at her but also bearing food, his compulsive way of caring for people, and since he was unable to feed House at the moment, she was the nearest substitute. She told him about the nightmare but not the apparent content of it, and he took over for a while on the one-sided banter with House, but when he was called away again to his dying patient, she was relieved. His eyes still held too much accusation for comfort. She had more guilt than she could handle all on her own, especially after House's episode earlier.

It was about an hour after Wilson left that the heart rhythm picked up on the monitor again, and she immediately was on her feet, studying him, hoping that he wasn't slipping into another dream. He shifted slightly, a grimace crinkling the corners of his mouth as he moved his right leg. His next move was to reach for his left temple, automatically using the arm on that side, and he nearly socked himself with the cast. Cuddy reached across quickly to grab his hand, and the blue eyes finally opened, wandering around the room for a few seconds before focusing on her. House was back in the house.

She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to begin.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for all the reviews!

(H/C)

The first thing he was aware of was pain. The constant companion in his thigh was sharper than usual, gnawing at him like an animal, and he tried to shift to a more comfortable position and only wound up annoying the leg further with the movement. Moving also aggravated his head, which was throbbing on the left side, echoing his heartbeat against the walls of his skull. There was also a dull heaviness along his left arm. He could tell he was on something for the pain, but the amount that he still could feel through it was way past usual. Confused, he picked up his left hand to probe at the sharp spot on the side of his head. The hand came reluctantly, almost with delayed reaction, and a hardness bumped into his nose before fingers caught his and pulled his hand back down. He opened his eyes.

The world was slightly out of focus, and that plus the fierce headache immediately made him write a diagnosis of concussion on the whiteboard of his mind. His slightly askew vision encountered Cuddy's worried eyes. Even blurry, she looked like utter hell, worse than he had ever seen her.

"I'm sorry," she said immediately. The exact echo of Stacy, even down to the tone, suddenly had him confused on time. Was he still back in the hospital with his leg? Had everything since just been a drug-induced dream? His right hand probed down toward it, but he could feel no bandages, no stump. He tried to sit up a bit to get a better look, but his headache gave him a further warning stab as he moved, and Cuddy's firm but gentle hands on his chest pushed him back down. "Don't try to sit up. You've got a concussion."

He licked his dry lips. "Kind of figured that out already," he rasped, shocked at how weak his voice sounded. "You didn't do more surgery on the leg, did you?"

Her brow wrinkled in concern. "Surgery on the leg? House, do you know what year it is?"

He let his eyes slip back closed for a minute, hoping that would help the headache. "I thought it was 2009?" His tone made it a question.

"Month?"

"February. Unless I've been out a lot longer than I think. But the way you said you were sorry. . . Stacy . . ."

She understood immediately. "You're right. It is 2009. Your leg happened years ago."

"So what were you apologizing for?"

"Do you remember what happened today? What's the last thing you remember?"

He tracked it out slowly, still with eyes shut. "We were working a case, and we were coming back into my office. I remember falling." Endlessly falling and never landing. It was a recurrent dream for him, tumbling down the staircase of his memories. He opened his eyes again, letting his slightly out-of-whack vision distract himself. "I take it I did land?"

Her smile was a weak caricature of itself. "Yes. You hit your head on your desk and also fractured your radius when you landed. And annoyed your leg, of course."

"Feels about right." He tried to move again, without much more success in the pain department. "Don't you have me on anything?" He knew they did, could tell they did, but he needed more.

"A low dose of morphine. We were being careful how many drugs we gave you with the concussion until we could get some baseline neuro checks." She sighed. "Do you remember why you fell?"

"I tripped. . ." His voice trailed off. Why? Tripped on what? He could remember the world suddenly being yanked out from under him like a rug, but he didn't know why.

Cuddy took a deep breath. "There was a trip wire in the door to your office." Her eyes left his, then reluctantly came back. "I put it there," she confessed.

She saw the sequence of emotions run through his eyes in a split second: Surprise, then hurt, then betrayal, and then the shields clicked firmly into place. The one thing she didn't see was what she had most wanted to see from him, anger. Anger could be dealt with quickly, blow over, and move on, but when House retreated into silence was when he had been wounded too deeply to let it show. Even though he was stuck in the hospital bed, she could feel him mentally running from her at full speed. "Please, House," she begged, "listen to me. It was a stupid prank, but I didn't mean anything more by it. Just a practical joke gone wrong. I didn't think you'd really get hurt. I never would have done that if I'd known. I didn't think it through at all. It was wrong, and I'm so sorry." Her river of apology ran smack into the dam of his defenses. Every barrier he had was in place at the moment.

His eyes closed again, blocking out the world. She was still holding his left hand awkwardly around the cast, and she carefully put it back down, propping it on the pillow again, fiddling with the sheets, giving him the time he clearly wanted. Her resolve lasted no more than a minute. "Please, House, say something. Yell at me. Anything."

"Run the neuro checks, since you can now, and then give me something," he requested, characteristically dodging the entire previous subject.

Cuddy sighed. She hadn't really expected it to be easy. She didn't deserve for it to be. "Okay, open your eyes." He obeyed, and she ran through the neuro checks, dutifully charting all of it, including his blurred vision. "How much pain are you in?" she finished.

"7," he replied, letting his eyes fall shut again. "Head and leg mostly. The arm isn't too bad."

She hadn't mentioned the nightmare, instincts warning her away from that. He was already totally locked up on her, and that subject could only make it worse. She'd seen no indication in him since waking up that he even remembered it. She couldn't resist asking one indirect question, though. "About your arm, x-rays showed a previous old fracture, fortunately well above the current one. The radiologist thought it shouldn't be an issue since they were several inches apart."

"Fell down a set of stairs when I was 8," he said without opening his eyes. The truth, Cuddy thought, but certainly not the whole truth. "Please, just give me enough that I can sleep for a while. That will help the concussion better than anything." The rare word please from him right then further confirmed her suspicions, but she let the subject alone. He was right. He really wasn't in physical shape for much serious discussion right now, and rest would help him. She dialed up the morphine, giving him the one thing he would accept from her at the moment.

"Okay, House, you should be out for the night in a few minutes." She stayed with him, watching as the drug started to carry him away, and right before he lost consciousness, she squeezed his right hand, deliberately picking the point when she was sure he could still hear her but didn't think he would be able to respond. "I am sorry, House." She bent over to kiss his forehead lightly and then stood there watching until she was sure he was deeply, dreamlessly asleep.

Then she retreated to her office, closed the blinds and locked the door behind her, put her head down on her desk, and cried.


	5. Chapter 5

Bonus chapter for today, because I'm not sure I'll be able to get one up every day this week with some other things going on. I'll shoot for average of one a day, but no guarantees. Thanks so much for all the reviews; it's better than Vicodin. :) For those with plot ideas, this particular story is already blocked out and plot formed. It does indeed have a good way to go, but as some of you have suspected, the root conflict was established back in chapter 3. Also rest assured, while I like angst, I also like happy endings.

(H/C)

The hospital was quiet in the middle of the night, most patients asleep, staff trying to keep the noise level down. Wilson entered House's room shortly after midnight, feeling his usual post-patient-death weariness settle across his shoulders. It was an inescapable part of his specialty, but he always wished that this one time, it could be different. Maybe someday. Research was making great strides, but those strides would come too late to help the woman who had died tonight. Normally, he would have picked up some beer after leaving the hospital and gone over to House's apartment, knowing his friend would still be awake, either watching TIVO or keeping himself company with his piano. House would have let Wilson in, sized up the occasion without asking, and watched TV and drunk beer with him until they both fell asleep, and in the morning, Wilson would have felt ready to go back to the job again. Oddly for someone so antisocial, House could be about the best comfort company Wilson knew of, always there, listening if that was required or providing distraction of jokes and the TV when Wilson didn't want to talk.

But nothing was normal tonight. House's apartment would be empty, the piano silent. With a sigh, Wilson checked on his friend. Cuddy was gone, which surprised him at first. House was totally unresponsive, deeply out, pupils only responding sluggishly to the light. Wilson flipped through the recent notes in his chart, seeing Cuddy's professional documentation. House finally had woken up and had been oriented to person, place, and time but with a bad headache and blurred vision. She had done the neuro checks and then medicated him, and Wilson's eyebrows climbed his forehead at the morphine dose she had administered. That wasn't merely taking the edge off the pain; that was deliberately knocking someone out for the entire night. A sort of opioid apology from Cuddy? Wilson tried to read between the lines in the chart, but it only teased him rather than providing details. With a lucid House and a guilty Cuddy, they must have talked. How had it gone? Where was Cuddy now?

Wilson knew that he had zero chance of getting any answers from House tonight, not with that much morphine in him. He carefully checked over his friend's injuries, making sure the stitches were intact, checking that the fingers protruding from the cast still had good circulation, slipping an extra pillow underneath House's bad leg. "I'll see you tomorrow, House," he said in parting. He did check Cuddy's office before leaving PPTH, but it was dark. He drove home alone, still somewhat angry but also worried now about both of his friends.

(H/C)

"I don't hate her. I hate him."

House's statement from long ago replayed in Cuddy's mind as she sat in the rocking chair holding Rachel. The baby was asleep, but Cuddy needed the contact right now more than Rachel did. She knew House didn't like his father; his offer of a "bastardogy" at the funeral last fall had been pretty typical of his rare comments about him. Having met John House, the rigid Marine, she and Wilson had both assumed the one night years ago they'd discussed it that House's free-thinking independence had clashed with his father's military code. It had never occurred to her that the real reason might lie a lot deeper and be a lot more valid. But how could a father actually push his son down a flight of stairs and call it punishment for something? She gripped Rachel a little tighter in reflex protectiveness. She couldn't forget that look of terror on House's face during his nightmare, his frantic and repeated apology, or the way he had immediately stopped fighting but been even more frightened when she snapped an order at him using his first name. It all fit into a picture of which an intentional fall down the stairs was only one of the border pieces of the puzzle. She shuddered to think of what scenes the other pieces portrayed. And where on earth had his mother been in all this? Had she truly not known, or had she just deluded herself?

So much would be explained, though. Not everything, of course. She had no doubt that even if raised by all-American award-winning parents, House would have been a handful as a kid and still would have turned into a maverick genius. But if he never had known unconditional love, never had known self-worth as a child, associated rules and family with pain, no wonder he was socially awkward and inept in relationships and defined himself just by his work. The one she had thought might last was Stacy - and Stacy had betrayed his trust, a very rare gift that he never gave lightly.

And now, what had she herself done today? House trusted her. For all their fights, banter, and sexual harrassment, she knew that he trusted and respected her just as she trusted and respected him. Had she thrown it all away on a stupid practical joke because she had been annoyed at him for being a part of her life? Was it going to be Stacy all over again? Even with a concussion, even before knowing the reason for her guilt, he had immediately upon awakening recognized the similarity between her apology and Stacy's back during the infarction before the unwanted surgery on his leg. Cuddy couldn't even justify his injuries as an accident. Unintended result, maybe, but what she had done had been deliberate. She first had made him climb 4 floors of stairs on his bad leg (had he taken some of those shaky steps remembering a fall down stairs at age 8?), and then she had set a trip wire to knock his already uneasy balance out from under him. Thinking about it in retrospect, Cuddy felt physically ill.

She had to talk to him. She had to get him to understand. This wasn't his father, wasn't Stacy all over again, just a thoughtless prank that she regretted more than she could put into words. But she also knew that deep inside, she was afraid that her actions didn't deserve the forgiveness for which she was asking him.

She sat there in the rocking chair through the early morning hours with only her thoughts and her sleeping baby as company, and the one comfort was knowing that House was at least safely beyond dreams, whether of John's actions or of hers, for tonight.

But what would tomorrow bring?


	6. Chapter 6

Wilson arrived at the hospital bright and early the next morning, going immediately to the floor on which House was admitted. All seemed quiet, and he stopped at the nurses' station. "Is he awake yet?" he asked, tilting his head toward his friend's room.

"Not yet, Dr. Wilson," the nurse replied. "We haven't really tried to wake him up, though."

He grinned at her, clearly hearing the unspoken subtext. "Don't worry, I'll do it."

She smiled back at him, wondering again just how those two happened to be friends. "Thank you, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson pushed the glass door back, carefully closing it behind him. The hospital was starting to have more activity and visitors, and he didn't want any comments by House to startle a bypasser. He walked over to the bed and studied his friend. The large bruise across his temple was worse today, of course, and between it and the stitched laceration, House's face wouldn't have been out of place in a horror movie. Wilson studied the monitors, then reached out to shake his friend's shoulder gently. The morphine should be wearing off at this point. "Rise and shine, buddy. Come on, House. Time for neuro checks."

His actions did get some response, as House apparently tried to burrow deeper into the pillow. "Come on, House. Open your eyes; I know you're in there."

One eyelid cracked to reveal a slit of annoyed blue. "Go to hell."

"And good morning to you, too. You know I've got to do this, House." He shook his shoulder again when the eyelid fell shut. "Up and at 'em. Did you know this is wear your sleepwear day for the nurses?"

House's eyes started to open at that, and Wilson grinned. "Gotcha."

"That's cruel, lying to your poor, injured friend."

"Everybody lies, House. Seriously, how are you feeling?"

"Like I fell into my desk," House replied, then relented at Wilson's expression of genuine concern behind the banter. "Headache still bad but a bit better than last night. Vision is clearer. Don't think I'd want to make any sudden movements yet."

"Are you hungry?"

The thought of food made him vaguely nauseous, and House started to shake his head and quickly proved the last part of his self-differential true as the room began to spin. He closed his eyes again. "Not hungry," he stated definitely.

While his eyes were closed, Wilson took the chance to study him further, thinking like Cuddy had yesterday that his friend had aged in the last year and seemed even thinner. The concussion certainly explained current lack of appetite, not to mention a possible lingering effect of a large dose of morphine, but Wilson made a mental note to bring him more food once he was out of here. "Come on, House, let's get this over with. Open your eyes again." House grudgingly complied, and Wilson ran through the neuro checks, charting things carefully. Just as he was finishing up, Cuddy entered the room.

"Good mor . . . you look like hell," Wilson stated, getting a good look at his boss.

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson, and good morning to you. I didn't get much sleep last night." Or any, in fact, but Starbuck's was a wonderful invention. Cuddy turned to House. "How are you feeling?"

"Still have the little men with hammers doing construction inside my skull. Hey, Wilson, how much clinic duty do you think this should get me out of?"

Cuddy gave her star employee a weak smile. "I wouldn't count on an all-season pass, but I'm sure you're excused for the immediate future."

Wilson looked from one of them to the other. Something was definitely off here. The banter on both sides was a hollow parody of itself, the words there but no real spirit behind them. "Did you two . . ." his voice trailed off, unsure how to phrase it. He'd been furious at Cuddy yesterday and still was angry, but she looked nearly as bad as House this morning.

House took it on himself to reply. "Oh yeah, she apologized for booby-trapping my office. I don't know, I think this at least counts for a year out of the clinic." Once again, the tone was flat.

Cuddy started to say something, then stopped herself, glancing at Wilson. The oncologist didn't notice, as he was looking at House right then, but House noted it and filed it for future reference. If Wilson obviously knew already that Cuddy was behind the trip wire, no doubt because House had reported his first conversation with Cuddy about the elevators to his friend yesterday, then what would she want to discuss with him but not say in front of Wilson? "Who all knows?" House asked.

"That it was Cuddy?" Wilson questioned, and House gave a very minute and slow nod, having learned his lesson about sudden head movements a few minutes ago. "Just the three of us for certain. It's got to be the number one topic on the rumor mill, though, and I'm sure your team is trying to work it out. The hospital in general probably is having trouble narrowing down possible candidates. The team might do a little better if they work hard at it."

"They probably have a separate whiteboard set up, one for this and one for the patient," House started, and then he snapped to attention, ignoring it as the room started to spin again around him. "The patient. She was getting worse, bleeding from her liver." He pushed himself awkwardly to a sitting position, hampered on both hands by the cast on his left and the IV line on his right. "I've got to . . ."

Cuddy and Wilson both had him immediately, pushing him firmly back into the bed. "You're not going anywhere, House, and that's final," Cuddy said with the most life behind her tone that she'd had since entering the room. "You aren't in any condition to be trying to work right now."

"The patient . . ." House closed his eyes to shut out the spinning room. All the movement had made his headache ramp up again, too.

"No," Cuddy stated firmly. "You need to rest. Your team is on it."

"Real comforting thought," the diagnostician muttered. His eyes stayed tightly shut, though, and his right hand crept down toward his insulted leg, which had reacted to his abrupt shift in position by going into a spasm.

Wilson read his actions perfectly. "Leg cramping up?"

"Mmmm." House didn't attempt to nod this time.

"Go get some diazepam," Cuddy ordered Wilson. "I'll give you a boost on the morphine again, too." Wilson left the room, and Cuddy turned back to House. "House, really, I . . ."

His eyes never opened. "You're sorry. Got it." His tone was almost clinical, making it an impersonal symptom on a whiteboard. "Kind of hard to rest when people keep talking to me."

Cuddy's shoulders sagged. "Okay, get some rest. I'll be back later." She reached out to put one hand on his arm briefly, and then she administered another dose of morphine, smaller than the one last night but hopefully enough to take the edge off his diagnostician tendencies for the moment as well as his pain. Then she left the room to put on her persona of administrator for the day, grateful that while he might be the champion, House was not the only one who could wear a mask.


	7. Chapter 7

Here's chapter 7. I'll probably be out of town at least one of the next couple of days, not sure which yet. I've also updated the story description somewhat. Thanks to all who are along for the ride; we've still got plenty to go.

(H/C)

It was approaching noon when Kutner surreptitiously exited the elevators and walked toward House's room, trying to look invisible. Fortunately, it was a busy time at the hospital, and he hoped he would slide under the radar of any nurses. Cuddy had given the team an update on House earlier that morning, ending with firm instructions to leave him alone, not bother him about the case at all, and handle any crises themselves. House needed to rest.

Kutner really had no intentions of enlisting House in the case; he simply wanted to see for himself that his boss was stable and on the mend. House had looked so small and still yesterday in the office while the team was trying to evaluate him, and Kutner was worried. He'd even come up with a great cover story, since he still had House's watch. He'd slip in, see House for just a minute, return the watch, and then leave, hopefully without any reports of his unauthorized presence being passed along to Cuddy. He really wasn't expecting House to be awake anyway, probably still sleeping off his concussion.

The nurses were all occupied as Kutner quietly passed the nurse's station, staying over against the far side of the hall. He reached House's room, slid the glass door open, and entered. House was indeed asleep, and Kutner tiptoed over to the bed. The bruise looked worse nearly a day old than it had fresh, but overall, House looked much more alive than he had in the office yesterday. His breathing was steady, and even with the obvious injuries, he looked asleep today, not dead. Reassured that his boss was indeed on the mend, Kutner took House's watch out of his pocket and started to place it carefully on the nightstand, but right then, a call suddenly sounded from the next room over. Kutner, still operating in undercover mode, jumped guiltily at the sound of brisk nursing shoes passing right by House's door, and he fumbled the watch, tried to catch it, and only succeeded in dropping it with more clatter, banging the bedrail in his frantic and futile grab.

House's head turned at the noise, and a grimace swept across his face, though his eyes didn't open. Kutner froze. House muttered something unintelligible, his eyes still shut, and Kutner noted his heart rate and BP on the monitor screen both make a sudden and sharp jump upward. His head moved again, and a light sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. "You okay?" Kutner asked softly. House murmured something else, the words indistinguishable but the tone becoming more agitated and the figures on the screen continuing to rise. "House. House!" Kutner reached out to put a hand on his arm, shaking it gently, and House's eyes snapped open, looking wildly around the room. "House," Kutner repeated, and his boss's gaze immediately focused on him. "You're in the hospital. I think you were having a bad dream." The efforts at orientation worked, as House's breathing steadied and began to slow. "You okay now?"

House cleared his throat. "Fine. Morphine can give you strange dreams sometimes." He looked around. "What time is it?"

"11:40." Kutner looked at his own watch, then bent down to pick up House's from the floor. "I brought you your watch. I took it off yesterday in your office because your wrist was swelling up."

House raised an eyebrow. "And you put it in the floor when you got here?"

"A nurse startled me, and I dropped it." Kutner gave him a conspiratorial grin. "I'm not supposed to be here."

"My lips are sealed," House stated. He glanced from his casted left wrist to the IV line taped to his right. "Just put it on the table where I can see it. Is there any water around here?" Kutner poured him a cupful and helped him raise the head of the bed a little so he could drink it more easily.

"So, since you're awake now, how are you feeling?"

"Got a headache, but I think I'll live. How's the patient?"

Kutner literally went into reverse, backing a few steps away from the bed. "We're, um, not supposed to be talking to you."

"Little late for that, don't you think? If you go away at this point, you'll leave me here with my poor, aching head trying to work out both the symptoms AND the diagnosis. Would you really want that on your conscience?"

"Cuddy threatened us with bodily harm." House continued looking at him expectantly, and Kutner sighed. "The bleeding is spreading. Multiple vascular tumors throughout her body. We had to drain blood from around her heart, but she's bleeding from the eyes and ears now. We're transfusing as fast as we can, but we're not much closer on a diagnosis. Foreman keeps working on the cancer theory, but we can't biopsy anything. She's already trying to bleed out even without needles stuck in her."

"Cool." House closed his eyes for a minute in concentration. "It can't be cancer. Progression and worsening are way too fast." He opened his eyes and looked over at his watch on the table. "And speaking of cancer, it's getting close to lunch time, and Wilson will probably show up at some point to try to get me to eat something. So if you don't want to get caught in the act of talking to me, you'd better scram. Can't have my inside information line chopped off, can I?"

Kutner jumped guiltily. "Right, I'll see you later. Feel better, House." He started to leave the room and then stopped. "By the way, one thing I keep wondering since yesterday. What was the end of that metaphor?"

"What metaphor?"

"Right before you fell. You were giving us one of your illustrations and ended it with 'Now her liver starts to bleed like me after . . .' and right then is when you hit the wire and fell. Her liver starts to bleed like you after what?"

House gave him a look of pure innocence, but with a spark of mischief in the eyes. "I don't remember. Must have hit my head or something. Bye."

Kutner sighed. "Bye, House." He paused at the door to make sure the coast was clear, then left the room.

(H/C)

After Kutner left, House lay there awake but with his eyes closed thinking about the patient. The headache was still boring away into his skull, but the drill bits were at least a little softer now than they had been this morning and certainly better than last night. The concussion would be more than an inconvenience to their patient if this case wasn't solved, though, so House tried to ignore the pain and work on Kutner's new information. Wilson arrived about 20 minutes after Kutner left, entering the room with exaggerated care and tiptoeing softly over to the bed on his patent leather shoes. "Don't look at me so loudly," House requested, eyes still shut, and Wilson jumped.

"I thought you were asleep."

"Nope. Not unless I'm dreaming, and I doubt I would dream of being a patient in PPTH." House opened his eyes to meet Wilson's worried brown ones. "Seriously, do I look that bad?"

"You should see yourself. You've got a large bruise across your left temple that's in gorgeous shades of purple and red now, and a sutured gash down the middle of it. Looks like something straight out of the movies." House picked up his hand, carefully using the right one this time to avoid hitting himself with his cast, and gingerly explored the dimensions of the injury. Wilson might have a point. "Have you had anything p.o. yet?" Wilson asked.

"Had a glass of water a while ago. Still not hungry, though."

"So you can look at it for a while, even if you don't eat it." Wilson opened the sack he was carrying and extracted a cup of green Jell-O and put it on the bed tray.

"I hate green," House started, and Wilson promptly withdrew light red, dark red, purple, and yellow from the sack.

"Always be prepared," the oncologist stated, his motto. He placed a spoon beside the Jell-O lineup, and House looked at the arrangement and sighed.

"You're going to stand there being concerned until I try something, aren't you?"

"You do know me."

House reached for the dark red and opened it after a brief struggle. He still had pretty good grip between his thumb and left fingers protruding from the cast, but there was no dexterity. He'd never realized how much opening things like Jell-O cups involved two hands. Carrying things while handling his cane was going to be a lot of fun for the next 6 weeks. Wilson forced himself not to offer help right off the bat, and House did indeed get the cup open finally. Wilson pulled a visitor's chair over and extracted his own sandwich. "So, how's the head now?"

"Still attached. How's my patient?"

"Nice try. You need to rest. Even when you get out of here, you'll need to be off at least a week or two."

House cringed. The last thing he wanted was a week or more of no puzzles, with not even full use of his piano to distract him. At least he could play the piano limitedly with one hand. The guitar was going to be out of the question for the duration. "What happens if I die of boredom while supposedly getting healthy?" Deep down, though, he knew it wasn't boredom he most wanted to avoid. He picked up a bite of the Jell-O, studying the deep red color on the spoon. Like blood. Like their patient, bleeding out while everyone was telling him to take it easy. Because Cuddy had set a trip wire in his office, and he had fallen. Falling. . . Damn.

"House!" Wilson snapped his fingers in front of House's nose. House focused, seeing a new wave of concern in the oncologist's eyes. "Are you still in there?"

"I'm fine," House responded automatically. He finished the spoon's journey to his mouth and realized for the first time that it was empty. The Jell-O had fallen off while he was thinking, and he hadn't even noticed. Wilson automatically was cleaning it up, of course, using a napkin from the sack to pick the quivering lump off the sheets.

"Right. Where were you?"

"Just thinking. Not a symptom of concussion, Wilson, just a symptom of boredom. Jell-O just doesn't hold my interest like it used to." He fished up another bite and successfully ate it this time. "Stop looking at me like that."

Wilson sighed. "When you do go home, I think I'd better stay over for a few nights."

"NO!" That came out unexpectedly sharply, and House winced as his tone reverberated around the inside of his head. Wilson even looked surprised. He'd expected resistance, but House's statement had an entirely different edge behind it. House didn't just look stubborn, although Wilson couldn't quite define what the other element was. Not something he was used to seeing from his friend. House realized it, of course, and immediately scrambled over into typical stubbornness, offering his friend the resistance he'd expected to encounter in the first place. "I don't need a baby-sitter. I'm fine." He took another bite. The nausea was better now, but his appetite wasn't. Even Wilson's lunch didn't look appealing.

"Of course, you can just stay in the hospital longer," Wilson countered. House sighed. His friend was like Hector chewing things. He simply wouldn't let anything alone. Which was exactly why House didn't want him staying over for a while.

Wilson changed subjects, getting worried by House's reactions. Something was definitely off here. He decided to give his friend a while and then return to the subject of aftercare later. "You know, what Cuddy did was irresponsible, childish, and worse than you at your worst . . . "

"Yep," House agreed, taking another bite of Jell-O.

". . .but she really didn't mean to hurt you. I was furious at her myself, but it was just a prank gone wrong. She didn't mean it, and she'll never do it again. Don't be too hard on her, House. She feels awful."

"I know she didn't mean it," his friend replied, studying the nearly empty Jell-O cup with all the intensity he usually applied to his whiteboard. "Just a prank, like you said. She apologized."

"So everything's fine between you?" Wilson couldn't help remembering the feeling of unfinished business this morning.

"We're fine. I'm fine. I'll see how much clinic duty I can milk it for, that's all." But again, his tone had no spirit behind it.

"You sure that's it?" Wilson asked dubiously.

"What part of fine don't you understand?" House finished the last bite of Jell-O and pushed the wheeled tray away from the bed. "I'm going to sleep for a while, so go care somewhere else. I've got a headache."

That last statement was the first one in a while that Wilson thought was entirely honest, but he realized he had pushed House as far as he could right now. He gathered up the remains of their lunch and left quietly. House already had his eyes shut.


	8. Chapter 8

House's eyes snapped open, and he gasped for air as he tried to force his heart rate and respirations to steady. He had been dreaming that time not of his childhood, for a change, but of their patient, lying on the morgue table but looking at him accusingly through her dead and still-bleeding eyes, convicting him silently of failing to solve her case in time. Blood was everywhere, even pouring through her skin, pooling on the table and running off onto the floor, making the ground sticky beneath his feet. He did not limp in his dreams, but his intellect had been crippled, and he had failed her.

He looked over at his watch on the table. It was 3:30 in the afternoon, and he had slept since Wilson's visit. Should have been working, even here in the hospital bed. Shouldn't have been in the hospital bed anyway. And why on earth hadn't he noticed on approach that his office door had been propped open yesterday, a dead giveaway to something odd? He shouldn't have fallen at all, even with Cuddy's prank. Of course, if he had two good legs, he might not have fallen anyway. Damn.

Looking around, he noted that the headache, though still present, had eased up another few notches and that his vision was totally focused now. Lot of good that would do their patient. He remembered her in the dream, lying there dead but still managing to look reproachful. Just like a woman. They must practice that look in the mirror.

Just like a woman . . .

House sat straight up in the bed. The room quivered a bit but did not start spinning, although his headache immediately reacted to the change in position. "Nurse!" He hit the button, hit it again impatiently a minute later, then switched the monitor screen off and ripped the attachments away from him. "Nurse!" He carefully moved his right leg over, noting but ignoring how sore it was, and sat on the side of the bed, then slowly stood up. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he gripped the IV pole tightly and waited for it to pass. The world stabilized after a few seconds, and he started across the room, glad that an IV pole was more substantial than a cane. His leg was trying to collapse on him anyway.

"Dr. House!" Ah, here came the nurse at last. "What are you doing?"

"I need to see my team right away." He took another shaky step, leaning heavily on the pole, and the nurse rushed across the room to support him. He tried to push her away, but since he only had his casted left arm available to use, it wasn't very effective.

"You need to get back in bed."

"No, I need to see my team right away. You weren't listening." He managed another step. Damn leg. It was actually starting to shake.

"You have a bad concussion. You need to rest." The nurse tried to urge him back toward the bed, and he nearly lost his balance as he tried another step at the same time. They stood there in a stalemate in the middle of the room, his one-handed grip on the pole so tight that his knuckles were white, the nurse both trying to keep him from falling and trying to push him back.

"DAMN IT, I said I NEED to see my team! Get them down here if you don't want me going up there. I know what's wrong with the patient."

"You ARE the patient, Dr. House." The nurse wondered what sin she had committed recently to be stuck with him on her floor. "You are not to attempt to work or to be bothered at all by your team. Dr. Cuddy's orders."

With House slumping against the pole, their eyes weren't far off level, and they locked defiantly. "I KNOW what's wrong with my patient, and I have to tell them." House insisted, trying to force himself to stand up straight and gain the advantage of height.

The nurse didn't budge. "Need some help in here!" she called.

(H/C)

Cuddy had deliberately stayed away from House all day, trying to give him some time to improve physically before the conversation that she was determined to have with him. In late afternoon, though, her pager went off with the text "House revolt." She sighed and headed for the stairs. Faster than waiting for the elevator.

She could hear him well down the hall. "I MUST talk to them."

"You aren't allowed to, Dr. House. I'm sorry. You're supposed to be resting."

"Does THIS look like RESTING?"

Cuddy entered the room, finding House holding himself up with difficulty by the IV pole but holding 2 nurses at bay by the sheer force of his personality. "House, what the hell do you think you're doing?" She pushed past the nurses and swung his left arm over her shoulder, trying to keep him from falling whenever his quivering leg decided to give out altogether. "Get back in bed."

"I've got to see the team," he insisted.

"NO! You aren't working right now, I'm sorry. Back to bed."

"But I have it. I know what's wrong. Just have to tell them." She paused, taking a closer look at him, seeing the familiar blue lightning in his eyes. It was an expression that she always loved, though she'd never admitted it to him.

"You're sure?"

"YES!" She believed him.

"Okay, you can talk to them BRIEFLY, with me here. But you're getting back in bed." She turned to the nearest nurse. "Page Dr. Foreman."

House finally stopped resisting the efforts to turn him around. Cuddy could feel his whole body, not just his leg, starting to tremble. "Lean on me. Just a few steps." Between her and the IV pole, he managed to get back to the bed without taking his second unplanned trip to the floor in as many days. He sat down on the edge, nearly falling back into the mattress, and Cuddy helped him get adjusted. His eyes were closed again, and he was sweating. "You idiot," she said with a fond edge of exasperation in her voice. "Why didn't you just use the call button?"

"Did. They didn't answer," he replied. Cuddy turned to glare at the growing flock of nurses in the doorway watching this contest of wills.

"He didn't give us time to. Things were busy."

"And you probably had to draw straws," Cuddy guessed. House snickered. "I'm going to be looking into response time on this floor. Last night's was far past acceptable limits, and I saw that myself."

"When did you call them last night?" House asked.

"We'll talk about it later." She reattached the monitor leads, switched the screen on, and frowned a bit at the numbers. "Take it easy, House. Just relax."

"I'll try as soon as I get through diagnosing my patient," he said pointedly.

Foreman entered the room with the team hovering back in the doorway. "You paged me?"

House sat up straight in bed and opened his eyes, and Cuddy pushed him back but did raise the head of the bed somewhat. "Is the patient having her period?" he demanded.

"Yes, but it's the multiple unnatural bleeding sites we're more worried about," Foreman said, not making the connection.

"Ectopic endometriosis," House stated. "When she had her uterine myoma removed, endometrial cells were spilled throughout her body. They've been growing for months and have finally hit size to be cycling. They swelled when her uterus did, they bled when her uterus did."

"You mean she's just having the period from hell?" Foreman asked. Thirteen, Cuddy, and the entire crowd of nurses cringed in sympathy.

"Exactly. Keep her transfused up, and once her period is over, the swelling and bleeding will decrease, and then the implants can be excised. She'll be fine." House closed his eyes.

"Wait a minute," Taub asked. "How did you know that her bleeding was getting worse?"

Damn. House made a lightning fast scramble at an explanation. "She was starting the internal bleeding before I fell. I assumed since nobody had put my mind at rest by telling me she was totally cured that the bleeding was still an issue." House's look was for the team in general, but Kutner, hanging back last in the doorway, winked at him.

"Okay, the show is over," Cuddy stated, looking at the crowd in the doorway. "Go do your jobs, everybody." They dispersed slowly, and Cuddy turned back to House, checking the monitor screens. The figures were still a bit on the high side. He had closed his eyes again, and he looked totally worn out. "Open your eyes, House. Let me run through a set of neuro checks while I'm here. How's the headache?"

"Getting better," he said.

"At least it was before you tried to escape, right?" The ghost of a smile passed across his lips as he opened his eyes.

"I'm fine. Feeling better."

She ran through the neuro checks and also, over his protests, checked out his leg again. "How did you come up with the answer on the case?" she asked.

"I had a dream." He felt her tense up. "What is it?"

She sighed. This probably wasn't the best time for this conversation. From her own observations, if not what he was admitting, she knew that his epiphany and escape had worn him out, and he was feeling pretty shaky at the moment. There were also far too many people around on the floor at the moment. She would do her best to preserve his privacy. "I'll tell you later, House. I'll come by later tonight when I leave. You'd better get some rest now."

"No fair," he objected. "You can't put another puzzle on hold and expect me to just take it. Is this what you didn't want to say in front of Wilson this morning?"

His powers of observation never stopped surprising her. "Later, House." She gave his good wrist a squeeze and then stood up. "I'll be back tonight." Just before she left the room, she abruptly stopped and said, "And I'm . . ."

"DON'T say it," he urged. He didn't want her to ruin the best conversation they'd had so far since his injury.

She sighed and left the sentence hanging. "See you later." She headed back to her office.

House lay there feeling more tired than he ever would have admitted. He had been shocked at how little it took to wear him out. Hadn't even made it to the door of the room. Pathetic. But at least the case was solved. He wondered what was up with Cuddy's reaction to dreams. His dreams had been much worse the last day, all of the old memories suddenly reawakened with a vengeance, but to his knowledge, the only person to wake him up out of one had been Kutner. All the other times, he'd woken up from them alone. There was also the question of her unanswered nurse's call last night. What had happened while he was unconscious? He hoped he hadn't given anything away; the leg already gave people more than enough grounds to pity him. He was determined to not give anybody any more.

His healing body forced him into sleep before his mind had finished its differential.


	9. Chapter 9

Here's chapter 9. Difficult discussion ahead, and I hope I kept them in character. Thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

For the second night in a row, Cuddy was paying for an evening sitter. Part of her felt guilty, although the babysitter was perfectly reliable and was delighted to pick up an unplanned evening's work. The other part of her knew that there would be times when she couldn't be home as soon as she'd like; as long as they didn't become excessive, hopefully Rachel would be okay. But Cuddy knew that she had to talk to House.

She did paperwork in her office for a while, letting the hospital first shift clear out, and got to the floor about 7:00. House was asleep - still or again? She picked up his chart and flipped through the latest progress notes. He'd woken up around 5:00 and asked for a glass of water, which the nurse had given to him. Wilson's note a bit later even had the handwriting looking disappointed. Wilson had brought food, no doubt a few Housian options for an easing-back-into-eating diet, but House had had practically no appetite still and seemed extremely tired, and Wilson had left before long.

Cuddy looked at the diagnostician's face, trying to see beyond the bruising and laceration. He did look utterly drained. She studied the history from the monitors for the last 24 hours, noting a pattern developing. He would sleep for an hour or not quite two, and then there would be a sudden spike in heart rate, which would last a while but then drop off. Comparing the time on the record to the time late this afternoon that he had called a nurse and asked for a drink, there was a direct correlation. None of those spikes had been as severe as the one last night, while he was still unconscious, and none had quite gone far enough to set off monitor alarms, but outside of the several-hour period that she had drugged him into oblivion last night, he hadn't gone more than a couple of hours without one, even though he was still on morphine for pain. She wondered if he would be able to get any productive sleep at all once he was back to just Vicodin.

Cuddy replaced the chart with a mental sigh. If she truly thought that everything was just fine with House, that compensatory time off clinic duty would pay for the damage, she would never push him to the conversation they were about to have. She could already anticipate his response. But clearly, even without talking about it, things were far from fine. The whole sense she got from him was wounded, and with injuries far deeper than the physical ones. Her thoughtless actions of yesterday had indeed apparently opened up a closet of repressed childhood memories. Perhaps helping him deal with them, proving to him that she could still be a friend, could be trusted, would be her penance as well as his salvation. She knew that she couldn't walk away from this, that they couldn't just pretend it hadn't happened, as much as he probably would like to. She had to let him know she was there.

With a weary sigh, she curled up in the visitor's chair, feeling her own sleepless night weighing on her. If he'd fallen asleep after Wilson had left, he should have been asleep about an hour and a half now. She would let him get what rest he could, since he certainly needed it physically, but she was also about to test a theory. She settled in to wait.

It was about 20 minutes later that his pulse, respirations, and BP simultaneously jumped on the screen, and he shifted uneasily. He wasn't physically trying to defend himself, like he had been in his nightmare yesterday, but he was clearly agitated. She forced herself to sit still and watch. His mutterings were unintelligible, but the figures continued to rise until he snapped awake with a jerk, enough that he hurt his leg, and his first conscious movement was to reach down with his right hand to massage it. His eyes stayed closed, but she knew he was awake now. She watched the figures drop on the screen, watched as he consciously made himself calm down and reminded himself that he was in the present and not the past. Finally, his eyes opened, going first to the nightstand where she realized for the first time his watch was positioned (who had brought him his watch? Wilson?), then to the doorway, and his expression was clearly relieved at the lack of nurses immediately outside at the moment. Then, he looked around the room in general, and his eyes met hers. They widened very slightly, and then the mask clicked in place.

"Bad dream?" she asked.

"Morphine can give you strange ones sometimes," he brushed it off.

"How are you feeling?"

"Getting tired of the headache, but it's a little better."

Cuddy had spent most of the day thinking through strategies on this. She'd finally decided that she needed to both surprise him and to risk something herself at the outset before getting down to the central topic, to hopefully plant the seed of her new observation and availability in his mind. "I've got a question for you." He tensed up slightly. "What did Tritter do to you?"

She achieved her goal. Whatever he'd expected, that wasn't it. "What did he do to me? Tried to get me put in prison, pursued an unjustified vendetta, took away my pain pills, acted like an arrogant jerk . . . sorry, weren't you here at the time? I know you're busy running the hospital, but you might have noticed some of this."

She shook her head. "I got to thinking." A bit late, but hopefully better late than never. "I told you that your thermometer stunt was assault, which it was. But I suddenly realized that you have never assaulted someone first. Even when you had some bizarre medical reason, some crazy test or something you wanted to run physically on a relative, you would goad them into taking the first step. Yes, he was an arrogant jerk on a power trip, but going beyond verbal attack for you takes more than that. So what did he do to you first?"

He was stunned, but she saw the brief flicker of memory in his eyes. Her shot in the dark had gone home. "All those weeks, all these years, you've never asked that."

"I know. I just assumed that there wasn't really a reason behind it, but I've realized thinking it through that I was wrong. I knew even then that was an extreme act on your part, not just being you. I should have asked you at the time for your side of things. I apologize." She was also trying out a new word, since he seemed to react so negatively to the word sorry, seeing if it was the word itself that had associations for him, not solely wanting to avoid a subject.

His eyes tracked away from her down to his leg. She gave him a minute. "In the exam room that day, he kicked my cane out from under me," House said finally.

Cuddy flinched, the entire Tritter episode suddenly taking on a new light in her eyes. And she had insisted that House apologize to him. She knew how sensitive House was about his leg.

House saw the flood of guilt in her eyes and unusually offered reassurance. "Oh, Wilson came off a lot worse in that episode than you did." He read her next thought flawlessly, as well. "And it wasn't similar to what you did to me. You pulled a stupid, thoughtless prank, but you didn't mean the consequences. He did what he did intentionally, so you don't need to flatter your guilt complex further by comparison." He broke off eye contact then, looking out the window, and was silent for a few seconds, then spoke in a small voice. "I probably deserved what you did anyway."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Was that the lie that had been fed to him throughout his childhood? Not only that people he should be able to trust would hurt him, but that the resultant pain was actually his fault? "NO!" He jumped at her tone and looked back at her. "You did NOT deserve that, House. I was way out of line. I'm . . ." she managed to stop herself before saying it, seeing him cringe in anticipation.

Silence descended for a minute. "So why does your oversized guilt complex suddenly include wondering about Tritter?" he asked.

She steeled her resolve. "Yesterday, while you were unconscious, you had a nightmare." Not a strong enough word, but she knew she wouldn't need to amplify it for him. "Do you remember that?"

He shook his head. He might not remember, but he certainly suspected, because he immediately deflected at full speed. "Strangely enough, trauma combined with unconsciousness can lead to some vivid thoughts and hallucinations. Did I ever tell you about the one I had after I got shot? That one should have been a sci-fi movie."

She refused the bait. "You were talking. You were begging your father not to make you fall. You were actually apologizing to him, House."

Damn. His eyes went to the watch, the window, anywhere else in the room. He said nothing, and Cuddy continued after a minute. "That got me wondering about that old break on your arm."

"Don't," he said in a quiet, strained voice.

"And that got me wondering about why you always tried to avoid seeing him, why you didn't want to go to the funeral. I had never asked myself if there really was a legitimate reason behind it."

"Cuddy, PLEASE don't." He got tired of looking at anything except her and closed his eyes instead.

She got out of the chair and came up to the side of the bed, putting a hand on his wrist. He flinched, and she let go. "House, if I thought that forgetting about what I heard would be the best thing to do here, I'd do it. I know you don't want to talk about it right now, but I wanted you to know that if you ever do, I'll listen. I'm . . . I apologize for being such a lousy friend all these years that I totally missed some things I shouldn't have, and I apologize for stirring up your memories with my stupid prank." He still didn't respond, and she said, "Open your eyes, House. Look at me."

He knew what he would see. Pity. The thing above all that he tried to avoid from people. She'd never see him again as anything but a weak, pathetic kid.

"House, open your eyes. I'm not leaving until you do. And I've got another question to ask you, and you'll probably get some immediate benefit from that one."

The carrot dangled in front of his curiosity worked. Reluctantly, almost against his will, he opened his eyes. She was leaning over the bed, and her blue-gray eyes met his. There was no pity. Concern, still plenty of guilt, of course, her being Cuddy, but what he feared most wasn't there. "I don't pity you, House," she said firmly. "I respect and admire you, just like I always have. I'd like to be a better friend from now on than I have been, but I won't push you. If you need anything, please let me know. You aren't alone, House. And you don't deserve to be." She reached across to touch his wrist again, giving him time to absorb her words. She wasn't expecting a reply, not tonight. "About clinic duty, how does a month off sound?"

House followed her with relief onto the new topic. "Not nearly enough. You know it can take a while to recover fully from a concussion." The banter was forced, nothing like his usual tone, but at least the effort was there. "I liked the sound of a year."

"Not happening. Two months."

"Six."

"Two. Starting when you return to the department."

He sighed. "Two. That's not immediate benefit, though."

"That wasn't the question I was referring to." She paused. "You do have a bad concussion, getting better, but you really do need rest for your body to heal. Given the immediate physical circumstances, would you like me to give you enough morphine again to make sure you sleep soundly through the night tonight?" She wouldn't make it a standing offer, but the constant jerking out of sleep wasn't doing his bruised brain any good at the moment.

He hesitated, unsure of how much he would be admitting to. On the other hand, he'd already admitted to too much, and she'd just watched him wake up a minute ago. He did feel absolutely exhausted, and the dreams were wearing him down. "Thank you," he said softly after a minute.

She nodded. "Besides, that way the nurses will have a peaceful night, too." He appreciated her trying to make a joke of it.

"You're going home to bed yourself, right?" Now that he looked at her more closely, she looked nearly as tired as he felt.

"Yes. We both need sleep tonight." She administered the extra morphine and wrote a note in the chart. "Good night, House." She gave him a smile and then turned and left, tonight leaving him alone with his thoughts as oblivion overtook him, and he was grateful for the silent concession to his privacy, as he was grateful that she hadn't told Wilson. But why couldn't she have left the whole subject alone? He sighed and stopped fighting the drug, letting it carry him away from everything for at least tonight.


	10. Chapter 10

"He's not awake yet, Dr. Wilson," said the nurse as the oncologist entered the hospital the next morning. "In fact, we haven't heard a sound from him all night."

Wilson frowned. "You did check that he was still alive, right?"

"Oh, he's alive." The phone rang, and the nurse turned to pick it up. Wilson grabbed House's chart from the nurse's station and flipped through the last notes, making sure that they had indeed checked on him. More significant was the note from last evening, where Cuddy had again given him a high dose of morphine. Wilson hung a note on his mental agenda for the day to talk to her. Opioid apologies could be taken too far.

He entered the room quietly and found to his surprise that House was in fact awake. He had the head of the bed angled up and was looking out the window with the distant expression that usually went along with deep thought on a case. He'd woken up but hadn't bothered at least one nurse yet this morning? Wilson's concern grew.

"Good morning!" he said brightly, but he had to repeat it before House startled slightly and looked over at him.

"Morning."

"How are you feeling?"

"Almost down to just a regular headache combo instead of supersized." Wilson walked over to the bedside and studied him. House looked better rested than he had last night at Wilson's visit, but the bruising, now beginning to blossom into greens as well as reds, did nothing for his appearance. Wilson leaned over for a closer inspection of the cut. "No infection. Looks pretty good for as bad as it looks. How's the leg?"

"Still there. And for your next question, my wrist is still in this plaster bucket someone put on the other day while I was unable to defend myself."

Wilson turned to the plastic container he had put down on the table. "Feel like some breakfast?"

"You know, contrary to popular belief, the hospital actually does bring patients food. You don't have to deliver at every meal."

"If I left it to them, I wouldn't be able to pay for it," Wilson shot back, and a slight grin passed over House's face. "Come on, you said last night the nausea was pretty well gone. I brought you pancakes." His specialty and one of House's favorites.

"Probably cold by now," House replied, and Wilson opened the container to let steam spill out.

"Got ready first, then made them last thing before I went out the door. You're the first stop in the hospital." He extended a fork to his friend. "Enjoy!" He sat down in the visitor's chair with his own serving and watched as House took a bite. His friend seemed more distracted than anything else, eating far more slowly than usual and with long pauses, even though he did at least get through about half of the food. House's attitude was more and more reminding Wilson of the period right after the infarction. It was then when Wilson had developed the habit of feeding his friend at his expense, something most of the hospital now couldn't understand, but left to his own back then, House truly would have forgotten to eat, not noticing hunger in the emotional storm of everything else.

House looked up and caught him in the act of caring. "Stop looking at me like that, Wilson. I'm eating, okay?"

Wilson sighed. "What's wrong?" He should have known better. Asking that question to House was almost guaranteed to earn you nothing but a smokescreen. As it did now.

"What's WRONG?" The sarcastic edge on his tone could have been used as a weapon. "Well, let's see. I've got a bad concussion, a head laceration, and a broken wrist." He left out the leg from his inventory. "All of the above because my boss put a trip wire in my office. What could possibly be considered wrong in all that?"

Wilson stood up, setting his empty container along with House's half-empty but obviously abandoned one to the side. "Let me take a look at your leg."

House tensed up immediately. "It's fine, Wilson."

"No reason not to check it out then," the oncologist persisted. House sighed but stopped resisting, something that itself set off more of Wilson's alarms. House just didn't seem himself the last day, even accounting for the concussion. Wilson waited for resignation even if not spoken permission, then moved the sheet over and the hospital gown up, examining the ugly scar. The thigh was bruised and somewhat swollen, although not bruised nearly as badly as his face. Overall, though, the leg looked no worse than it had two nights ago. In fact, the swelling had retreated some. So House's omission from his list of injuries wasn't in fact a subtle physical clue to a worse problem. Wilson carefully covered it back up and smoothed the sheet. "Still kind of swollen and annoyed, but it's looking better than it was. You might try walking a bit later today, keep it from stiffening up. Some gentle exercise would probably do it good."

"I made it halfway across the room yesterday."

Wilson looked at him sharply. "You were still dizzy yesterday."

"Which is why I said halfway." For just a moment, the familiar light gleamed in House's blue eyes. "I solved the case."

"Seriously?"

"Yep. From a hospital bed and everything. But the idiot nurses didn't want me to talk to the team."

"I take it you won?"

House nodded. "They called Cuddy, but she sided with me." Probably not a complete victory, but before Wilson could ask for clarification, his pager went off, and he glanced at it. "People starting to die early today?" House asked.

"Got to get upstairs." Wilson picked up both food containers. "Want a Reuben later for lunch?"

"Do I have a choice?" House asked pointedly.

"No." Wilson smiled at him and left the room.

(H/C)

It was late morning when Cuddy knocked on Wilson's office door and let herself in. "You wanted to see me?"

"Right. It's about House."

Concern swept across her face in a quick wave. "I checked on him about an hour ago. He's still got the headache, but it's continuing to decrease, and all of his injuries seem to be improving. I wound up giving him 2 months off clinic duty, by the way."

Wilson was almost distracted from his purpose. "I would have liked to hear that negotiation. Practice for the next time you buy a car." He sighed. "I noticed when I was looking at his chart first thing this morning that you gave him a large dose of morphine last night. Just like the night before."

"He needed the rest. I wanted to make sure he had a sound night's sleep, for the sake of his head injury."

"That was more than a little boost for a sound night's sleep. With his concussion, he would have slept anyway." Wilson sighed. "Don't let House take advantage of your guilt over this and manipulate it just to get more drugs. We already know he has a problem with the Vicodin. There are better ways to apologize than with morphine."

Cuddy's reaction was far from what he had expected. She straightened up and crossed both arms over her chest, totally closing herself to him. "I'm his attending doctor, Dr. Wilson. I made a medical prescription the last two nights using my medical judgment, and you have no right to question my professionalism."

Wilson couldn't believe it. "You're pulling rank on me? Cuddy, how many conversations have we had as friends about his Vicodin addiction? I'm just asking you to be careful. He has a problem, something we've both agreed on a hundred times before. Don't give him a chance to use you and make it worse. He's an addict. Remember how many Vicodin he had stashed away during Tritter's rampage?"

Cuddy's posture grew more stiff, something he hadn't thought possible. "If you have a problem with how I practice medicine in my hospital, take it to the Board. House is my patient, and I will treat him as I think best."

Wilson's temper flared up. After all their mutual concern about House and drugs, he couldn't believe Cuddy was just handing out morphine right and left out of guilt and then refusing to admit it when gently reminded of their friend's addictions. "Your patient? Yes, but are you forgetting WHY he's in that hospital bed? How many doctors get the chance to be personally responsible for putting their patient in the hospital before treating him? And you wonder why I'm questioning your objectivity on this?"

Cuddy was absolutely rigid. "This conversation is over, Dr. Wilson. You don't always know everything." She turned and left the office, banging the door behind her. Wilson picked up a knick-knack from his desk, a gift from a patient, and threw it across the room in a surge of fury, and it hit the door to the balcony and crashed through, landing in a clatter of glass outside. Wilson, standing up and going over to inspect the damage, saw House's entire team in the conference room across the balcony looking curiously at him. Damn.

(H/C)

"Here's your Reuben," Wilson said thirty minutes later, extending the plate to House. "I've, um, got a consult I've got to get to, but please at least try to eat it."

House studied him with head slightly tilted, and Wilson gave a mental sigh. In under a minute flat since entering the room, he had qualified as a puzzle, which would only complicate his much-needed escape right now from his over-perceptive friend.

"What's wrong?"

Wilson heard, and took advantage of, the echo from that morning. "Oh, I don't know. My best friend is in the hospital injured after being practically assaulted by our boss. Oh, and cancer sucks. What could possibly be considered wrong in all that?"

"Cancer doesn't suck any more than it did this morning," House observed. "Which makes the central issue me being hurt by Cuddy, but I'm not any more hurt than I was this morning, either."

Wilson tried to calm himself down. "Look, I've just had a shitty morning, okay? You might have had one of those yourself sometimes. I've got to go." He turned and left the room at a walking run.

House looked after him for a few minutes, head still slightly tilted. Between the case yesterday and Wilson's sudden desire to not stay for lunch with him at the moment, he really needed a whiteboard down in this hospital room to keep track. He'd have to suggest them as standard decor. He absentmindedly took a bite of the Reuben, his thoughts still sifting through the maze, sorting, analyzing. The puzzle made a welcome distraction from his childhood memories, his sore leg, and his slowly improving headache.


	11. Chapter 11

When Wilson came back down about an hour later, he encountered Kutner in the door just in the process of leaving. House's fellow jumped guiltily and immediately started offering an alibi. "I wasn't talking to him about work or bothering him, I swear. I wasn't even talking to him at all. He's asleep again. I just brought down his Gameboy. I thought he might start feeling like some distraction as he gets better."

"Relax, I'm not going to arrest you." Wilson looked past him into the room to House. "He is getting better," he reassured the fellow in a low voice. "Concussions just take time."

"Right. I'd better get back upstairs in case we get a case or something. We've been catching up the charts." He suddenly remembered what else had happened that morning, and it wasn't in his nature to leave questions unasked. "Um, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You threw a paperweight through your door this morning."

"I'd just had a really difficult consult on a tough case." Wilson could bend the truth nearly as well as House when he wanted. "I shouldn't have lashed out at something like that, but I'll pay for it."

Kutner accepted the explanation. "I don't envy you explaining it to Cuddy, though. See you later." He left, taking care to make sure no nurse was hovering in the vicinity.

Wilson quietly entered the room and studied his friend. House was indeed asleep and hadn't even moved during their quiet conversation in the doorway. All vitals on the screen were steady. House looked tired, more tired than he had this morning first thing, but rest was the best prescription for him at the moment. The plate was on the bedside tray and contained the remnants of the Reuben, probably about 1/3 remaining. He had eaten some of it, at least, which was what Wilson had wanted to verify. The oncologist picked up the plate, gave a final look at his friend, and tiptoed out. Guilt could do strange things to people. Imagine Cuddy honestly convincing herself that somebody with a bad concussion needed a high level of chemical assistance to be able to sleep soundly. This situation was going to be a challenge in dealing with both of his friends.

He slid the glass door shut and headed back upstairs. Behind him in the room, the readings on the screen were stable for another minute, then made an abrupt jump.

(H/C)

"Okay, go slowly now." Cuddy stood by carefully, not actually touching House but close enough to make a save if needed, as he pulled himself up on the IV pole and stood. "Are you dizzy?"

"No, not today." House proved it by shaking his head. "Just the headache still hanging around, but it is getting better."

"What about the leg?"

"Sore and stiff." House rewarded her with a straight answer as he took a tentative step. All of their conversations so far today had been utterly medical, and House appreciated her giving him space after last night's revelation. The knowledge that someone else knew was itself enough to deal with without her pushing him. He tried another step, still clinging to the IV pole. Damn leg. "When do you think I can get out of here?"

"Probably tomorrow night or the next day, but we'll have to see. I'd like to wait until the headache is gone. That really was a hard impact, House. Foreman was afraid you'd fractured your skull again." Cuddy, practicing her own resolution for the day, refrained from saying once more that she was sorry, and House heard the unspoken thought.

"Don't beat yourself up too much, Cuddy. If the hospital knew who did this, you'd probably be getting congratulations. You just have the guts to put thoughts into action, and most of them don't."

"Some actions need to stay just as thoughts." She smiled at him, then reached out as he wobbled slightly on his slow tour of the room. "You okay?"

"Just cramping up a bit." His focus turned inward, assessing. "Maybe I'd better get back to the bed at the moment, then try again in a little while."

"Right. Keep working on it gradually." She hovered close while trying not to be obvious, then heaved a slight sigh of relief as he made it back to the bed and lifted his leg up into it. "I see that somebody brought your Gameboy."

"Probably Wilson." House had figured out the identity of his giftbearer pretty soon after jolting himself awake from another nightmare, but Cuddy didn't need to know that Kutner had been down here again, no doubt over her orders still in effect to leave him alone.

"Wilson what?" The oncologist entered just in time to catch the last word.

"Brought down my Gameboy." House picked it up from the table and switched it on. "And my watch yesterday, too." He figured Wilson would catch on.

"Right. Glad I could help." Wilson glanced at Cuddy. "How's he doing?" he asked, trying to defer to her judgment. His anger never stayed boiling over for long, and he had already realized that Cuddy's guilt complex was the driving factor here. Careful steps were needed.

"I'm here," House reminded them pointedly. "Why don't you ask me?"

"Because you'd lie," Wilson responded.

"He's slowly improving. He's going to start walking around some in short intervals, working up to it. The headache is still there but getting better." Cuddy headed for the door. "I've got a meeting with a sponsor I have to get to. I'll see you later tonight before I leave, House."

"So has your shitty morning given birth to a shitty afternoon?" House asked his friend, eyes still on his game.

"Afternoon has definitely been an improvement so far. Sorry I was abrupt earlier. Some days, things just get to you more than usual." Wilson sat down in the visitor's chair. "It wasn't me who brought the game, actually. It was Kutner. I bumped into him in the doorway. You were asleep."

"Figured that out. That you were here too, I mean. Your compulsive neatness wouldn't let you work with the thought of a dirty plate in my room."

"Did Kutner bring you your watch, too?"

"Yep." House was definitely hiding something there. His focus on his game was a little too acute, but Wilson didn't push him on it. There were more important things to discuss.

"Look, House, don't take advantage of Cuddy."

The music on the game died an electronic death as the car spun out of control. "Relax, taking advantage of Cuddy remains one of my so-far-unfulfilled dreams. Someday, though, the twins and I will be even better acquainted than we are now."

"Get your mind out of the gutter. I wasn't talking about sex."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I seem to have heard somewhere that men are always talking and thinking about sex. I think it was even a woman who wrote that."

Wilson could feel his own headache starting up between his eyes. "I was talking about drugs." House immediately tensed up, dropping the joking front. "She feels awful about this, and she should, but don't use her guilt just to get more drugs. I know what's happened the last two nights."

House dropped the game. His eyes, meeting Wilson's now, were totally shielded. Wilson could almost see the concertina wire glistening on top of the high wall. "She told you?"

"No, I saw the notes in the chart. She wouldn't discuss it at all. But she's given you enough morphine to knock out a horse the last two nights. I know it's hard for her to resist you asking right now, playing the injury card, but you know you didn't really need extra, House, and you shouldn't have asked her. What you're on anyway should have been enough for the pain."

"You think I'm playing Cuddy's guilt just to get high?" House's eyes drilled into him.

"I . . ." Wilson retreated too late, trying to think of an unconfrontational way to phrase it.

"Get out." House ordered.

"What? House, I'm just speaking as a concerned friend here. We know you're an addict; you've admitted that yourself. I just don't want to stand by and watch while . . ."

"GET OUT!" House's voice was raised to a level that it rarely hit. The monitor beeped, and Wilson glanced at it.

"Calm down, House. Take it easy."

House didn't respond. He turned his head away from Wilson, staring at the wall, the game lying forgotten on the sheets, but one look at the screen told his friend how agitated he was getting.

Wilson spread his hands soothingly, even though House wasn't looking at him. "Okay, okay. I'll leave for the moment. Maybe I shouldn't have brought it up yet, since you are hurt, and it's only been two days. But I was worried about you, okay? I'm worried about both of you." He crossed the room but couldn't resist turning back at the doorway. "I probably won't make it down to eat later, but I'll come by before I leave tonight." That should give House a bit of time to cool off. "I'm sorry," Wilson said as he left.

House didn't reply, though he flinched at the words.

Wilson took the stairs back to his office, needing to work off some anxious energy. He'd spoken too soon. His shitty morning had indeed given birth to a shitty afternoon.

(H/C)

Cuddy gave first shift a bit of time to leave and then headed for House's room on her own way out. She wanted to check on him and hopefully get a straight answer from him whether the dreams were any better today. She'd been thinking even before Wilson's blow-up this morning about possible non-narcotic sleep aids that might be useful if needed once House was out of the hospital, but for tonight, she would leave the choice up to him, trusting his judgment of his current physical versus psychological state. He had stopped to analyze her offer last night, hadn't just jumped at it. He desperately needed to be trusted, she thought, nearly as much as he needed someone he could trust.

Wilson. He had made her furious this morning, assuming that he knew House's motives, assuming that he had all the facts and that House was just being House. How many times over the years had both of them dismissed something as just House being House? Wilson had even brought up the Tritter episode as an illustration, reminding her of how Wilson, as always thinking he knew everything and knew best, had sold out his friend and cut a deal with the man who had assaulted House first and started it. Wilson this morning had been a perfect reflection for her of her own failings over the years. Is that what she so often had sounded like, what they both had sounded like, to House?

She arrived at the correct hall and headed down it, slowing abruptly at the sight of Wilson standing in the doorway. Standing too still in the doorway. He heard her footsteps and turned with his brown eyes full of concern as she approached. "We have a problem," he stated urgently.

She came up shoulder to shoulder with him in the doorway and looked into the room. The bed was empty, the covers pushed back. The monitor leads lay loose on the sheet, the screen switched off, the Gameboy still on the table but the watch gone, the IV pole missing along with the occupant.

House was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

Reviews: The cure for the common cliffhanger. Enjoy!

(H/C)

The obvious places were the easiest eliminated. He wasn't in his office - although he had been, had apparently picked up some clothes he had there, as well as presumably a spare cane, since he'd discarded the IV pole. He was not on the roof. Wilson left to go use his key to search House's apartment, and Cuddy started a systematic, floor-by-floor search of the hospital. Trouble was, House was expert at hiding, physically as well as emotionally.

Cuddy opened the door of the auditorium, hoping to find him here as she had a few times playing out variations of tunes on the piano. No House. She checked the empty exam rooms of the closed clinic. She even checked the janitor's closets. No House.

Her cell phone rang, and she grabbed for it so urgently that she dropped it. "Hello?"

"He's not here. Hasn't been here, as far as I can tell." Wilson's voice was absolutely flat. "Have you found him?"

"Not yet. He can't have gotten too far; he could barely walk this afternoon, even with the IV pole. Why would he take off now? He knew he would be discharged in a day or two, and he seemed to accept it."

"There's something I didn't tell you earlier," Wilson confessed. "After you left this afternoon for your meeting, I stayed there a while. House was pretty upset when I left. In fact, I left to give him time to cool down."

"Why?" Her mind finished the leap almost as soon as she asked the question. "Wilson, you didn't confront him about the morphine, did you?" Wilson's silence was confirmation enough. "You actually accused him of playing off my guilt just to score drugs? Telling me was bad enough, but you said that to HIM?"

"Well, he WAS," Wilson defended himself.

Cuddy was glad her chief of oncology was on the phone instead of in front of her at the moment. She might not have been able to restrain herself, and unlike her prank on House, this would have had deliberate consequences. She wanted to tell Wilson everything, but she knew she had to protect House's privacy. He would never trust her again if she passed along his back story without his permission, even to his best friend. "Wilson, I can't say anything, but just for once in your life, stop making assumptions about House."

"They were justified assumptions," Wilson protested. "And since when are you the expert on him? Did attacking him suddenly give you new insights into his character?"

"ENOUGH!" Cuddy rubbed her face. "Okay, the important thing here is to find him as soon as possible. He's still got some acute medical problems. I'm still working on the hospital. Can you think of any other possibilities?"

"Normally, I'd say a bar, but he looks like something out of Rocky, and he could hardly stand up. And even House knows the consequences of mixing alcohol with a concussion."

"His bike is here, so at least he didn't drive. Why don't you try the police? See if he got picked up somewhere. He looks bad enough that anyone who met him might have called him in as a suspicious person. I'll keep searching the hospital. Keep in touch." She snapped her phone shut and resumed her search.

It was approaching 10:00 p.m. when she arrived at her house. None of their efforts had turned up anything. However, Cuddy's sitter had earlier stated that she couldn't possibly stay past 10:00 tonight. At that point, when she was just planning on checking on House and getting him settled for the evening after the traffic in the hospital from the day shift had died down, Cuddy hadn't thought it would be a problem. Everything had changed now, but Wilson, feeling guiltier by the minute even if he still wasn't quite sure of the details of his offense, had talked Cuddy into going home to Rachel by promising updates at least every hour. He was out in his car now, searching Princeton. Reluctantly, Cuddy had agreed.

She headed up her sidewalk in the cool February air and nearly fell over him as she reached for the door. House was huddled on the ground just outside, propped against the corner of the door, eyes shut. "House!" She knelt beside him, frantically feeling for a pulse. His skin was cool, but she felt with relief the steady beat beneath her fingers. He was shivering. "HOUSE!" She shook his shoulder, already fumbling for her phone with the other hand to call an ambulance.

He came to life with a jerk, banging his head against the house as he jumped, and Cuddy winced along with him. "House, it's me. What the HELL did you think you were doing?"

His eyes opened. "Didn't want to scare your sitter. Figured you'd come home soon. Couldn't go to my place; Wilson has a key." He looked at his watch, which was strapped around his right wrist. "What took you so long?"

"We were looking all over Princeton for YOU! What did you think we'd be doing?"

He genuinely looked surprised at her anxiety. "Didn't mean to scare you." His eyes fell shut again.

There was a rustle on the other side of the front door. "Dr. Cuddy? Is that you?" The sitter opened the door, and Cuddy barely managed to keep House from totally falling in. The sitter stepped back, startled, and stared down at House, who looked at the moment not only like a vagrant but like a vagrant who had just been in a bar fight. "Who . . ."

"He's a friend. It's okay." Cuddy started to recover her administrative abilities. "House, can you stand up?"

He shrugged. "Not sure." He didn't bother opening his eyes to answer. She didn't like how lethargic he seemed, and she shook him again.

"House, how did you get here?"

"Took a cab. Waited for you."

Cuddy was running down a mental checklist. Concussion, pre-existing and aggravated injury to his leg, now mixed with far too much activity too soon and probably hypothermia. He didn't even have a coat on, probably didn't keep a spare coat in his office. Why hadn't she thought to check her house on her and Wilson's list of possible locations? She stood up and put her hands under his arm. "House, let's try to stand up. If you can't get up with my help, I'm calling an ambulance. Or Wilson."

It was the second option that galvanized him more than the first, and together, they managed to get him upright, even if it was a shaky victory. Locked together in a crazy embrance that included his cast and his cane as third and fourth members, they lurched into her house past the sitter, who was watching all of this with her mouth open. Cuddy aimed him at her couch, and he collapsed onto it, his eyes falling shut again. She quickly grabbed a couple of baby blankets lying around the living room and draped them over him, then got the thermometer from the bathroom and pulled her bedspread off the bed before going back to the living room. She wrapped him up thoroughly and shoved the thermometer in his mouth. Then, she briskly retrieved her purse from outside the doorway and counted out the money. "Thank you for staying here this evening. I really appreciate it. Rachel's asleep, I take it?"

The sitter looked from Cuddy to her unscheduled guest. "Right, she had her last bottle at around 8:30. Are you sure everything's okay, Dr. Cuddy? I had a date for the late movie, but I can stay if you need help." Clearly, this was better than any movie.

"Everything is under control," Cuddy replied. "Thank you again."

The sitter reluctantly left, and Cuddy turned back to House with a sigh. He didn't appear to have moved since his near crash-landing on her couch. She straightened his leg out a little more, stuffed a couch pillow under it, and repositioned his wrist, then extracted the thermometer. 95 degrees even. Not good, but still in stage I hypothermia, not yet to truly dangerous levels. She would do a bit more triage before automatically calling an ambulance. She tucked the covers in around him more securely, then headed quickly to her kitchen and made a cup of herbal tea. Back at the couch, she shook him again. "House! Come on, you idiot. Wilson is on speed dial, you know." His eyes slowly opened, and she lifted his head and pushed the cup to his lips. "Drink this." He took a gulp and made a face.

"What is it?"

"Honey lemon herbal. Sorry, if I'd known you planned to get hypothermia here, I'd have more flavors to offer. Come on, all of it."

He finished the tea over a few minutes. "Slave driver," he said. She grinned, partly in relief.

"Okay, best I have here is a flashlight, but it works. Open your eyes, or I'll open them for you." He flinched away in protest as she checked his pupils. She then took his pulse, after which she took his temp again. 96. Gaining. She brought him a second cup of tea and sat down on the edge of the couch next to him. "Okay, you idiot. Give me a differential diagnosis for somebody with a concussion and a pre-existing and aggravated infarction in the leg who leaves the hospital against medical advice and without even signing out and takes off across town without a coat in February."

The ghost of a grin played over his lips. "Someone who's tired of being shut up in the hospital?"

"Or someone wanting to add pneumonia to the list. Or someone running away - figuratively speaking - from talking about something." She sighed. "Wilson told me what he said."

That got the strongest reaction out of him yet. "Wilson thought he knew it all, as usual. Knows more about me than I do."

"He was wrong, House. But you let us all think that as a defense mechanism. Yes, we jump to conclusions, but you've built the facade you show us."

"Did you tell him?" House asked, eyes shut again.

"No. It's not my place to."

The blue eyes opened and met hers in a look of unshielded gratitude. "Thank you."

"He wouldn't think any less of you if he knew, though. He might understand you better." She jumped suddenly. "Wilson! He's absolutely frantic. He's out driving through Princeton looking for you." She grabbed for her cell phone, and House's right hand shot out from under the blankets to grasp her wrist.

"I don't want to talk to him right now, Cuddy."

Her heart melted at the pleading in his tone. And he hadn't just run for the hills - figuratively speaking. He had tried to come to her when he hit the limit. That was at least progress. "Okay. But he needs to know you're safe. He's worried sick, House. We both were." His hand let go of her wrist, and she flipped the phone open and dialed. "Wilson, I've got him. He's pretty worn out and cold, but I think he's okay. I'm going to monitor him for a while before deciding if we need to go back to the hospital or not."

"WHERE IS HE?" The oncologist's agitated voice came across clearly to House, who looked surprised at the feeling behind the words. Wilson truly was frantic.

Cuddy hesitated, but there was no point in deflecting. Wilson knew where she had been going. "He came to my house. But Wilson, I think it would be best if he didn't see you tonight. He just needs a little time."

"Let me talk to him." Cuddy raised an eyebrow at House, and he shook his head.

"Not right now, Wilson. He needs to rest. I don't want to get him any more upset tonight, but you can see him tomorrow." House sighed, resigned, almost in unison with Wilson on the phone.

"Okay. Tell him I'm sorry. I'll see you both tomorrow. And if you need anything at all, no matter what time it is, call me."

"I will," Cuddy promised. She hung up the phone and looked at House for a minute, then reached out to touch his face. The shivering was less, and his skin felt warmer. "How did you pay for a cab without your wallet? Your personal effects were still at the nurse's station."

"I had some money in my desk."

"Seriously, House, medically and not personally, do you think you need to go back to the hospital? Wilson will leave you alone tonight."

He gave it a minute, assessing. "Think I'm okay. Just sore and tired and cold."

"How's the headache?"

"A little worse, but nothing like it was at first two nights ago. I think I've just been doing too much."

"What on earth would give you that idea?" Cuddy rolled her eyes. "I don't have any morphine here. Have you had anything?"

"Picked up some Vicodin in my office. I took two about an hour ago."

She sighed. "We need to talk about meds. I'm not Wilson, and I'm not judging you. Not anymore. I just had a couple of suggestions, nothing to do with your leg pain."

He closed his eyes. "Not tonight, Cuddy. Just let me sleep - as much as I can, at least. I don't feel like talking tonight."

She nodded, then realized he couldn't see the movement with his eyes shut. "Okay. Want to move to my bedroom?"

He gave a weak smile. "Never thought I'd say this, but I don't think so. Staying right here is fine for now. I don't want to get up."

His leg wouldn't appreciate the couch, but his leg wasn't going to appreciate anything else he'd done tonight, either. "Okay," she said. "You can call me if you need anything. And tomorrow morning, you are going to have to eat. Unless you want back on IVs, the p.o. intake has to increase. I'll get you a glass of water for tonight if you need it later."

"Bad as Wilson," he murmured, for the first time that evening using his best friend's name without annoyance attached. She got him a glass of water and then took his temperature again. 97.1. She checked all of his peripheral pulses, making sure the blood flow to his fingers and toes hadn't been compromised by the cold, then tucked the blankets back in warmly around him. "Cuddy?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"What is it, House?"

"I didn't mean to scare you," he repeated.

She was only starting to understand the last few days that he really did not consider himself valuable enough to worry about except as a doctor, so other people's reactions of personal concern truly hadn't occurred to him. "Don't worry about it. But don't ever do it again. Next time you leave my hospital AMA, I want the form filled out first. Got it?"

"Got it," he replied, sounding half asleep.

She carefully tucked the bedspread more tightly under his chin, and then she bent over and gave him a quick kiss. "Good night, House. I'll hear you if you need anything. Just call me."

He smiled, a real smile, though the eyes didn't open. "Good night, Cuddy."

She made a quick check on Rachel, then went to bed, hoping that the night would be a fairly peaceful one for all of them.


	13. Chapter 13

Cuddy slept like a rock for an hour and a half before her alarm clock, stuffed under her pillow to mute it, went off. Rachel would be wanting a bottle soon, and she didn't want the baby to wake up House. Besides, she wanted to check on him, too. She slipped out of bed, pulled on her robe, and padded to the kitchen in her socks, trying to keep quiet. She stopped to look at him halfway across the living room. He was asleep, but the lines on his face were set a bit tighter. Even out for the moment, he looked like he was in pain. She hated to think of how his already reinsulted leg would react to several hours on her doorstep in the cold.

Rachel gave a murmur from the nursery as she started the process of waking up, and Cuddy hurried on to grab a bottle and then go quickly to her daughter. A bottle, a clean diaper, and several minutes of holding, and Rachel was falling back into peaceful dreams. Cuddy only wished that House could have his issues fixed by 10 minutes of care, but she knew it would be harder. They had a hard road ahead. Still, part of her heart was singing. He had turned to her. He had actually turned to her.

Speaking of House, she wanted to check on him more thoroughly. She stood, tucked Rachel back into her crib and covered her warmly, then returned to the living room. House was still asleep, and she risked reaching out to touch his forehead lightly. He felt warm now. Maybe even a little too warm, not really much of a fever but not normal. She frowned in thought, then picked up the thermometer and headed to see what OTC meds she had on hand. On the other hand, House was getting acetaminophen with his Vicodin anyway. She studied the inadequate selection and sighed, then returned to the couch. She hated to wake him up.

House settled the issue for her by falling into another dream at that point, his breathing suddenly increasing along with his agitation. Damn. She switched on the lamp and reached forward to put a hand gently on his shoulder. "House. House, wake up, it's me. You're at my place, remember?"

He snapped awake with one of those near-convulsive jerks like she had seen yesterday, and he immediately grabbed for his thigh, right hand clutching it and even the left starting that direction before he remembered about its uselessness at the moment.

"Cramp?" Cuddy asked. He gave a tight nod. He still hadn't opened his eyes. "Do you want me to help?"

He hesitated, then sighed. "Okay."

She pushed the covers back and started massaging his leg. The entire extremity was absolutely rigid, his jump a minute ago obviously reminding it of all its grudges from last night. Five minutes, and she wasn't getting anywhere. "House, I think we're going to need something more here." He considered it, then finally nodded again. He knew this spasm wasn't going away on its own. "I'm going to get the heating pad, and then I'll make a phone call." She stood up and then as an afterthought picked up the discarded thermometer and put it in his mouth.

She returned in a minute with the heating pad, plugged it in, switched it on high, and draped it across his leg. Then she extracted the thermometer and picked up her cell phone.

"Cuddy? What's wrong?" Wilson answered on the first ring, not sounding sleepy at all. .

"We need a few things over here, soon as you can. Diazepam, morphine. I think you'd better bring some azithromycin, too. He's got a temp of 100.3. Not much, but anything worries me after as cold as he was last night."

"I'm on it," Wilson replied, already hanging up the phone.

Cuddy snapped her phone shut. "Hang on, House. We'll get you something soon." She slid her hands underneath the heating pad to resume kneading his thigh. It was like trying to manipulate steel, actually making her fingers hurt. House's eyes were still shut, his lips pressed tightly together to keep from screaming. Cuddy kept going, unsure if she was making any difference at all with this but needing to do something. Finally, Wilson's knock came at the door, and she hurried over to let him in.

He had an entire bag from the hospital, obviously far more than she'd asked for, and he was already fishing through it almost before it was set down on her floor. Cuddy pulled out an alcohol swab and prepared the site as Wilson drew up injections of diazepam and morphine, and House didn't even flinch as the needle plunged home. Wilson carefully felt the leg himself, wincing in sympathy. "It's totally locked up."

"Noticed that," House said a bit breathlessly. His friends waited anxiously until his expression began to unclench.

"Better?" Cuddy asked.

House nodded. "Thank you."

Wilson felt the leg again. The spasm was finally unknotting itself. He turned back to his bag from PPTH. "Okay, we've got azithromycin, an IV kit if needed, several liters of saline, penlight, stethoscope, blood pressure cuff. . ." He went on unpacking an amazing amount of meds and supplies.

"And a partridge in a pear tree," House said, having opened his eyes by now and watching this.

"I like being ready for anything," Wilson replied. "Knowing you, I've had some practice." Cuddy, watching them, smiled to herself. They would be okay.

"Okay, House, let's get some actual baseline vitals, and then I'll give you the azithromycin. We don't want to give you a chance to start pneumonia on top of everything else." She was glad Wilson had thought of the blood pressure cuff. She took everything including his temperature again - still 100.3 - and then administered the antibiotic. "How are you feeling now?"

"Tired. Leg's better."

"How's your head?" She flashed the light in his eyes, and he winced.

"Headache's still there." Probably added to by the muscle tension and stress of the spasm.

"Let's just leave the heating pad on for a while." Cuddy rearranged the covers, tucking him back in thoroughly, and then said, "Do you want anything to eat? Another cup of tea?"

"Don't have to eat yet. It's not morning," he protested, and she grinned at the reference to their earlier conversation. Wilson was watching all this with interest, obviously holding himself back from diving full-fledged into either concern or apology. He could tell the minute he'd walked in how much pain his friend was in. The physical needs topped the others for the moment.

"Okay, I'll give you a pass for tonight, but tomorrow morning still applies." She hesitated, then went on. "Do you want me to give you some more morphine?"

House's eyes immediately went toward Wilson. The oncologist met his look guiltily, then studied his shoes. "I'm not sure what's going on here, House, but obviously more is than I had realized. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. I'm sorry."

House still hesitated, then said to Cuddy, "Let's just leave it at the moment. What he gave me is taking the edge off. Maybe it will be enough."

She didn't think it would. Neither did he. But even with apologies, he couldn't quite bring himself to ask for more in front of Wilson at the moment. "Okay," she replied. She switched the lamp back off. "Try to get some sleep, then. We'll both be here."

He nodded, closing his eyes. "Thanks."

Cuddy retreated to the kitchen. "Want a cup of herbal tea, Wilson?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Sure. Sounds good." The oncologist stood and followed her. "Cuddy, what is going on with him?" he whispered.

Cuddy didn't whisper, deliberately letting House hear, knowing he was straining to hear anyway. "I can't tell you." Her voice dropped to a nearly inaudible level. "But I swear, if you say one word to him at the moment about morphine, I'll triple your clinic duty for the next year." Even whispered, her tone was steel.

Wilson blinked and nodded. He turned around and retreated to the living room, surveying her seating options and picking out the most comfortable chair to settle in. He sat down, not looking or feeling relaxed, and studied his friend. "Please don't ever run off on me again like that, House," he said softly, his mind jumping back to a night years ago when he had driven away his brother.

House didn't reply, but his closed eyes twitched. Wilson knew he had heard.

By the time Cuddy returned a few minutes later with tea for her and Wilson, House was sliding back into sleep. The two friends settled in the chairs, watching and worrying, keeping vigil.


	14. Chapter 14

Cuddy and Wilson sat there in the living room, not talking for fear of disturbing House, just slowly unwinding after the last few days, although Wilson did notice that Cuddy glanced at the clock several times and showed no inclination to doze off at all. With the living room lamp off and only the street lights from outside and the light left on in the kitchen spilling into the room, House's face looked less obviously bruised. He almost looked peaceful.

Like clockwork, after nearly 2 hours, House abruptly shifted and gave a murmured protest. Wilson sat up in concern, looking at him, wondering if he had shifted wrong against the sore leg. Cuddy immediately leaned over to switch the lamp back on, got up, and started rummaging in Wilson's portable pharmacy, filling a syringe. House turned his head back and forth, and his fingers clawed at the blankets. Sweat had broken out across his forehead, and his mumbling was taking on a note of urgency. Wilson got up and bent over him. "House? You okay?" His friend's eyes were tightly shut, but his lips were still moving, and Wilson bent over closer, trying to pick out the words.

"No! Dad, don't make me fall. I'm sorry."

Wilson straightened up, and shocked brown eyes met Cuddy's sadly resigned blue ones. She finished drawing up the injection and reached for an alcohol prep pad. Wilson shook House lightly. "House? Wake up. It's okay, just a dream."

Cuddy by this point was prepared for the violent jerk as he awoke, but Wilson wasn't. He retreated a few steps in reflex. House's eyes snapped open and roamed wildly around the room, his breathing still ragged, trying to orient himself even as his right hand immediately went to his thigh. She stepped up in front of Wilson, deliberately blocking him from House's sight for the moment, and leaned over the couch. "House, I've got some more medicine for your leg to stop the spasms and let you rest. Okay?"

House was still recovering from the dive back into the past. His leg wasn't happy, either, although he had enough residual left over from the first injection that it hadn't totally seized up again, at least. He looked at the syringe in her hand, which he knew as well as she did wasn't merely diazepam, and nodded. Cuddy waited until she was certain he understood and had consented, and then she efficiently prepped the site and plunged the needle home. His eyes slid closed, and she gently stroked the back of his right hand with her thumb until his breathing had leveled out again and she was sure he was under. She then put the needle in the sharps container and picked up the thermometer, the blood pressure cuff, and the stethoscope, getting a set of vitals. Everything was stable again, although he was still running a low-grade fever. Satisfied for the moment, she tucked the blankets back firmly around him and finally turned to face Wilson.

The oncologist had been standing in the middle of the living room stunned. Cuddy waited patiently. Wilson fought to recover the power of speech. "He . . . what . . . did you . . .his . . . damn."

Cuddy nodded, her eyes filling again with tears on House's behalf. "Damn."

(H/C)

They sat in the living room chairs with two more cups of tea which Cuddy had made for them. The lamp was still on, and now they had no fears of disturbing House. He was far beyond dreams for the next several hours. They could have moved the emergency conference to the kitchen, but both of them wanted to stay close to their friend.

Wilson was still trying to grasp what Cuddy had already wrestled with unsuccessfully for two nights. "How could any father . . . "

"I don't know."

"He wasn't House's biological father, as it turns out, but still. . . " Wilson ran his fingers through his hair. Cuddy didn't even blink at that bombshell; she'd had too many larger caliber ones the last few days. "He's been having that dream since he was hurt?"

She nodded. "The first time was the nightmare before he regained consciousness, and that one was by far the worst."

"Worse than we just saw?"

"Yes. I swear, when he's only asleep and not unconscious or drugged out, some part of his subconscious tries to keep it down and avoid being noticed. It's very clear on the monitor records, though, as well as watching him; he can only really sleep about 2 hours max before he starts dreaming again. But then he wakes up with a jerk like that every time, and he actually hurts himself doing it. Leg and head."

"And that's why you knocked him out chemically . . ." Wilson sighed.

"He wasn't doing the concussion any good. Not to mention the leg. I know it isn't a long-term solution, but for the first few nights until he's in better shape physically, I do think it's best."

Wilson looked directly at her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I totally misjudged you . . . and him. You even told me truthfully why you gave it to him."

It was Cuddy's turn to look away. "Apology accepted, but think about what I did. I'm the one who dragged this skeleton back out of his closet in the first place. He's never slept what I'd call well, but I know he hasn't had dreams like this every few hours round the clock until I made him fall. It's my stupid prank that started it."

Wilson's voice cut like a knife through her guilt. "It's his bastard of a non-father who started it, Cuddy. You couldn't have known. I mean, your prank was still stupid and irresponsible and thoughtless . . ."

"Thanks for the reassurance," she said.

". . . but you had no way of knowing. None of us did."

"Didn't we?" She looked back at him. "How many times have we just ignored clues from him? The funeral should have been a dead giveaway - if you have to drug and kidnap a son to get him to his father's funeral, there are serious problems there that were NOT all on one side."

"And every time they've visited." Wilson was starting his own list of missed signals. "And that girl, Eve, who was raped. He was so negative at the end of that. A major breakthrough when she talked about it, and he dismissed talking things through as just making someone cry. I've always wondered what he told her. I know he tried to smokescreen a few times, but she wouldn't let him. He never would tell me what he said at end that made her open up."

"Maybe that's why she wanted to talk to him in the first place," Cuddy said. "She saw it. In 5 minutes in the clinic of all places, she recognized what none of his friends have seen in 20 years."

They sat there for a minute in silence, watching their friend's battered but peaceful face. House was totally out. "What are we going to do?" Wilson asked finally.

"He'll probably work it out that you know. I was just trying to keep him from having to deal with someone else knowing at the moment, when he'd just had another dream. He needs to rest tonight." She looked at House. "I've done a lot of thinking over the last two days on strategy. I couldn't tell you, Wilson. I had to let you find out for yourself. I'm sorry."

He nodded, understanding. "How did he react to you knowing?"

"He didn't realize the first day that I knew. When I told him, he totally shut down and didn't want to talk about it, and I just made sure he knew that I was there, was available, and would listen. Then I changed the subject. We actually never talked about it again before his great escape."

"But he came to you. He was listening."

She gave a sad smile. "And last night, I did say I'd like to discuss some medication options for sleep - zolpidem maybe - for the future, and he said he was too tired to talk then, but he didn't go full speed into denial. Maybe we're not totally past redemption as friends."

"And maybe he isn't totally past saving." The oncologist looked at House. "We've got to get him healthy. Physically, I mean."

"Right. I think the key on the abuse is going to be not pushing him. Just be there, but don't corner him with it."

"That's going to be hard." It wasn't in Wilson's nature to only stand and wait.

"Yes." She remembered walking away from House's room after telling him, wanting nothing more than to stay there and talk it out but knowing he needed space to process the idea of his secret being shared. "We'll just have to try harder."

Rachel's cry was heard from down the hall, and Cuddy stood up. "Why don't you try to sleep a while after dealing with her?" Wilson suggested. "He'll be out for several hours, and if you'll forgive me saying so, you look half dead."

Her mind revolted against the idea, but her body was exhausted at the last few days. She knew she had to get more rest. "Only if you do the same. You could sleep in the recliner so you'd still stay close to him if he needs anything."

Wilson started to protest, then realized that he no doubt looked as exhausted to her as she did to him. And she, like he, had a point. "Okay, deal." Rachel's cries kicked up a notch in volume, and Cuddy hurried down the hall.

Left alone with his friend, Wilson stood and walked over to the couch. He reached out and took his temperature, making sure the fever wasn't climbing, and he left his hand there on House's head for a minute. "All these years . . . you should have said something. But we should have noticed. I'm sorry, House." He went back over to the recliner and forlornly sat down, feeling like a guard assigned too late to sentry duty at a building that had long before been broken into, robbed, and damaged.


	15. Chapter 15

Wilson was deeply if uncomfortably asleep, sprawled in the recliner, when he realized that something hard was poking him repeatedly. He groggily tried to swat it away, but the object immediately resumed its relentless and rhythmic assault. Reluctantly, his eyes finally opened, and he realized the source of the annoyance. House was reaching across from the couch and poking his leg with his cane.

"Good morning!" the diagnostician said brightly. "Time to get up."

Wilson grumbled something unintelligible and shifted to his other side in the recliner. The delayed reaction to his surroundings set in, and he suddenly realized that he wasn't in House's apartment after a late TV and beer night. He was at Cuddy's. Bright sunlight spilled in through the windows. House . . .

Wilson rolled back over to face his friend as the details of the previous night refreshed in his mind. "How are you feeling? Did you need something?"

"Glad you asked. Since I've been on this couch all night, I think it's about time to go pee."

Wilson folded the footrest down. "Need some help getting up?"

"No, I just thought I'd save you the trouble of picking me up off the floor in a minute by waking you up first," House retorted. His joking tone abruptly deflated, like a popped balloon. "Not sure the leg is going to hold me."

Wilson got up and came over to the couch. He put a hand on House's forehead, and House swatted it away. "First things first," House insisted.

"Okay. Sit up first, and let's give it a minute to adjust." Wilson watched as House slowly, even more slowly than usual, used his hands to move his leg over. "So you came to Cuddy's last night and waited outside?"

"I was afraid the sitter might call the police on me."

"Or she might have called Cuddy on you, which would have saved everybody a lot of time."

"Didn't want to bother Cuddy."

Wilson gave his exasperated sigh. "You didn't want to bother her? So you disappear on us and leave us frantically searching for hours?"

The light tone fell away again. "I didn't mean to scare you." House's eyes were suddenly fixed on the carpet. He had managed to achieve a sitting position, his right hand rubbing at his leg.

"How long were you out there waiting?" Wilson asked, returning to the subject of the insulted leg.

"About 3 hours."

In February. Without a coat. Sitting on the cold concrete with his leg already aggravated. Wilson could well believe that House questioned this morning whether it would hold weight or not. "You want me on the left or right?"

"Try left and just be there. Let's see if I can walk with the cane."

"Okay." Wilson doubted it. He moved over to House's left side and sat down next to him on the couch, slinging House's left arm over his shoulders and banging himself with the cast in the process. "That thing gets in the way."

"Tell me about it." House steeled himself for the effort and gripped his cane tightly

"Ready?" Wilson asked. House nodded. "Okay, one, two, THREE." They stood together, and House wavered for a second. Wilson steadied him. "Are you dizzy?"

"No." The reply was pushed through tight lips, and Wilson gave him time, carefully holding him up but letting House take the lead. Finally, his friend nodded, and they started down the hall, one painfully slow step at a time, and turned into the bathroom. House managed to prop himself against the edge of the sink and unzipped his fly. "A little privacy would be nice."

Wilson reluctantly let go of his friend's torso and turned away, partially closing the door but keeping his ears at attention. He walked a few feet down the hall to Cuddy's bedroom door and looked in, then smiled. Cuddy and Rachel were both sound asleep together on her bed. Wilson quietly pulled her bedroom door shut, then returned to the bathroom door as he heard a flush. "You done in there?" There was no response, and he pushed the door open. "House?"

House was staring at himself in the mirror - the multicolored bruise which covered nearly a quarter of his face, the stitched gash down the temple, the sunken eyes. "Wow."

"I did tell you it was bad." Wilson carefully positioned himself on the left side again, and they slowly hobbled back to the couch, where House sank into the cushions. "Okay, now let me get some vitals for the morning."

"I'm still alive, Wilson. That walking and talking thing is kind of a giveaway."

"Let's see just how alive." Wilson stuffed the thermometer in his mouth, then took pulse and blood pressure. Both of those were a bit high, although House was still breathing a bit faster than usual after the trek down the hall and back. He'd been trying to hide how difficult it was for him, but Wilson had been able to feel the jolt through his body and the involuntary flinch that couldn't be hidden every time he put his right leg down. Wilson pulled the thermometer out and checked it. 101 degrees even. "101," he said in response to House's raised eyebrow. He put the stethoscope back in his ears. "Take a deep breath," he instructed as he listened to House's chest. "There's just a slight bit of congestion there. We're going to keep you on the antibiotics, regular doses, and I'm taking some blood in for basic labs later, too. Now tell me why again a world-renowned doctor would think it was a good idea to bolt from the hospital without a coat in February and spend three hours sitting outside on someone's doorstep?"

"I needed to get away from things for a while," House replied, and Wilson abruptly remembered whom he had run to get away from and why.

"Look, House, I'm . . ."

House cut him off. "I know, I know. You said that last night."

Wilson turned to get another dose of azithromycin. "What do you need besides the antibiotics? More diazepam for the leg spasms? Do you want morphine or Vicodin at the moment?" His tone was absolutely non judgmental, making it purely House's choice, and he turned back to the couch a few seconds later when he got no reply. House's bright blue eyes were studying him with his thinking expression.

"She told you," House said, and Wilson could see the quick flare of disappointment and betrayal before the shields clamped down. "No other reason you'd give me an open invitation to morphine without at least thinking to yourself that I didn't really need it."

Wilson sighed. He'd been trying to postpone this discussion until after the physical issues of the morning were dealt with. "She didn't tell me, House. You did."

House understood instantly, of course. He looked away, saying nothing.

Wilson couldn't help going on. "House, it wasn't your fault. People wouldn't blame you. I wish you'd tried to talk to me about him, just once."

"I did," House said in a tone that was totally flat.

"You did? When?"

"On the way to the funeral, when you kept telling me I was deluding myself and was an ungrateful son. Because you knew exactly what was going on, of course. You had no question in your mind."

Wilson was stunned. Would House actually have opened up to him on that trip if he had perceived any kind of sympathetic ear? But he was right. Wilson had still been in denial of his own reasons for breaking off the friendship after Amber, and he had been primarily concerned during the drive with portraying beyond any doubt to House how totally businesslike the transaction was and how non interested he was in House's father issues. He felt tears welling up in his eyes and blinked them back. "I'm sorry, House. I didn't know."

House flinched at the apology. "Wilson," he said softly. "Don't ever tell me you're sorry."

"But I . . ."

"Then find a different word. Or say nothing." His eyes were distant, looking into the past, but his posture was tense, and he still wasn't looking at his friend. Wilson knew that it was time to back off. That road for the moment was unquestionably closed.

"Okay, let's get the antibiotics. We've got to keep those going. What about the other meds?"

House still was turned away, studying the furniture. "Small dose of diazepam, and I'll just use the Vicodin for the moment. Already took two this morning."

Wilson drew up the dose, wishing there was some psychic medicine he could administer as easily to House that would fix things. "Okay, what about breakfast? Are you hungry?" His cheerfulness sounded forced.

"No." House said quietly.

"Too bad. If you don't eat well today, you're back on IVs. Cuddy will start you on TPN if she has to."

House looked around the living room. "Is Cuddy asleep?"

"Yes. She and Rachel both, so keep it down. It's Saturday, fortunately, so none of us have to be at work." Of course, House wouldn't have been in any condition to work anyway, even without last night's stunt. Wilson rummaged in Cuddy's kitchen for a few minutes, then came out with a glass of water, which he set down on the coffee table. "I'm going to run to the store for a couple of things. Cuddy doesn't quite have everything I need to make pancakes. Will you be okay for a little while?" Wilson found the TV remote and put it next to the glass of water for his friend.

"I think I can manage to stay by myself. I've made it alone for years, Wilson."

Wilson looked at him sadly. House was still studying the floor. "Too many years," he said softly. "I'll be back in a little bit."

House still hadn't moved when Wilson went out the door.


	16. Chapter 16

Cuddy woke up slowly, feeling almost drugged by the unaccustomed luxury of sleeping late. Rachel was still asleep next to her, but the baby was starting to make the soft noises that would precede her waking up, and her lips moved, sucking an imaginary bottle. Cuddy smiled, then abruptly remembered the events of the night and sat up quickly. Her bedroom door was closed. She thanked Wilson silently; she really had needed the extra sleep. No doubt he was taking care of things at the moment, and he would have called her if he needed help. Rachel's eyes opened, and Cuddy scooped her up off the bed. "Good morning, Rachel." She held her tightly as she stood up and headed for the door, looking down at the trusting eyes so close to hers.

How could a parent possibly deliberately hurt his child?

She changed Rachel and dressed her in the nursery, then walked down the hall, her steps speeding up a little as the eerie silence of the house began to soak into her. House was on the couch, sitting up a bit with his legs stretched out along the cushions, his eyes open but focused on something far beyond the room. Wilson was nowhere to be seen.

"House? Where's Wilson?" He didn't react, apparently hadn't heard her, and she walked over to him and reached out to put a hand on his forehead.

He jumped, abruptly realizing her presence, and she followed his movement, frowning a bit in worry. It wasn't high, but he definitely still had a fever. "I didn't mean to startle you," she said.

"I was just thinking. 101," he added, answering her thought. "And I've already had more antibiotics."

Her blue eyes were concerned. "Just remember, your 2 months off of clinic duty starts when you return to work. If you get pneumonia, that will only delay the beginning of your free time at the hospital." His expression acknowledged her quip, and the genuine concern behind it. "Where's Wilson?"

"He went to the store."

Rachel wiggled and protested the slowness of breakfast in arriving, and Cuddy abruptly remembered what she was doing. "Can you hold her for a second while I go warm up a bottle?" She thrust the baby at House without really waiting for a reply, only realizing in retrospect that it might be difficult for him with his wrist in a cast. "Or if it's too difficult for you . . ."

That came out sounding wrong, and he flinched. "Right, I'm a double cripple now. I think I might be able to hold a kid while sitting perfectly still. Not too challenging on the accomplishment scale." It wasn't so much that he wanted to hold Rachel, but her reminder of just how helpless he was at the moment stung. He had sat there for nearly 30 minutes this morning debating before finally waking Wilson up, and if he had really thought he could have made the bathroom alone, he would have tried it. Pathetic.

Cuddy managed to keep herself from saying she was sorry. She headed into the kitchen and started warming the bottle, suddenly feeling crippled herself emotionally, watching a friend in pain and powerless to do what she wanted to for him. House probably already knew that Wilson knew his secret, too. Wilson would have given that one away by eyes or attitude in just a few minutes.

When she came out, House was holding Rachel and studying her, not with anything approaching the affection or warmth with which most people held babies, just pure analysis tinged with sadness. Was he wondering the same question she had earlier? What else had his father done to him over the years? And why on earth hadn't his mother stepped in? "Okay, baby girl, here's breakfast," she cooed, and Rachel, who had been puzzled but frozen into silence by the sheer intensity of House's focus, looked at her mother and cooed back. Cuddy picked her up and sat down in the recliner, and Rachel latched onto the bottle eagerly. "How are you feeling?"

She asked it as a medical question, acknowledging silently the huge "no tresspassing" sign hovering over him at the moment, and he answered it in the same manner. "The leg is a bit worse than usual today" - Cuddy automatically multiplied "a bit" by a factor of 10 - "but Wilson gave me some more diazepam. The headache is better. Still there, but better."

"Does your wrist hurt?"

"Not really. It aches a bit, but mostly it just feels like it's in a cement bucket."

"What about in general? I don't like the fact that you've been running a fever for several hours."

"Some general myalgia, just like I've got a mild case of the flu. Not too bad."

She couldn't think of anything else to ask that wasn't invasive at the moment, so she sat there watching Rachel, and House sat there watching her. The love and tenderness in her face, the protectiveness - and for a kid that wasn't even hers. The embodiment of everything he hadn't had stung, and he turned away abruptly, looking out the window. The sudden movement caught Cuddy's attention, and she looked back at him. "Have you already had breakfast, or is Wilson going to make something when he gets back?"

"He's going to make pancakes." She knew House loved Wilson's pancakes, but there was no enthusiasm at all in his tone.

"You have got to start eating more, you know. You've lost weight this year, even before you got hurt." He'd also already lost some through this ordeal, she could tell. All the lines of his face were drawn a bit tighter.

House didn't reply, still looking out the window, but he was fidgeting with his cane. She didn't push. Rachel finished her bottle, and Cuddy put her up on her shoulder to burp her. When House's voice came after several minutes, it was so quiet that she almost didn't hear the words. "He used to dump pepper all over my food when we were alone, to toughen me up, he said. If I threw up, I had to eat another serving again."

Cuddy nearly dropped Rachel. "Oh, House . . ." She pulled herself up at that, not wanting to make him shut down. It was the first thing he had offered of his own volition. Easy, she told herself, reining in her flood of compassion firmly. Don't push, don't push. He has to take the lead. But boy would that explain why, any time he was stressed or upset, he didn't want to eat. Too many bad memories tied up in food. Again, she wondered where on earth his mother had been.

House seemed to read her mind and answered her indirectly. "People see what they want to see sometimes. Even if it isn't the truth, it's easier to deal with."

Cuddy literally clamped her tongue between her teeth to stop the verbal flood that wanted to emerge. Don't push him, don't push him. They sat there in silence for another minute, and Rachel's lusty burp broke the atmosphere. Cuddy smiled. "That was a good one," she said to the baby, taking her off her shoulder, and Rachel smiled back at her in innocent obliviousness of anything even close to the subject under discussion. Cuddy felt a fierce wave of protectiveness flaring up again. Her daughter would only know about such atrocities through reading, never through experience. She looked back up at House. He was looking at her holding the child, and their eyes met directly. He seemed to be searching for any sign of pity, and she made sure to show him none.

Wilson rustled through the door, both hands stuffed with grocery sacks. Cuddy got up to help him. "You know, Wilson, I did have food."

"Too healthy," House tossed over the back of the couch, and Cuddy and Wilson grinned at each other.

"Could you please hold her for a minute again, House?" She didn't make any comments on his abilities this time and passed the baby off, and then she unpacked groceries, apparently half the store, while Wilson made pancakes. "He knows, doesn't he?" she asked sotto voce, and Wilson nodded.

"I didn't tell him, but he worked it out pretty quickly."

"Don't push him, Wilson. We can't push him. He was actually talking a little bit before you came in, though." He looked surprised at that, then nodded. Cuddy closed the refrigerator door and went back to retrieve her daughter, leaving Wilson with the cooking for the moment.

After she picked up Rachel, House fished his Vicodin bottle out of his pocket and took two. "You can have more morphine if you need it," Cuddy offered, and he shook his head.

"Not right now." Cuddy handed him the baby again and knelt down next to the couch, reaching for the heating pad that was draped again across his thigh and waiting for permission in his eyes. She pushed it back and felt gently along his leg. The muscles weren't in spasm, but it was swollen a bit more. She couldn't see the scar under his jeans, but she could tell the whole thigh was annoyed. House was tense the minute she'd come anywhere near touching it, too, not just psychological tension but physical. She replaced the heating pad as Wilson came in with a tray.

"Breakfast in bed . . . sort of," the oncologist said, and Cuddy picked up the baby, letting him set the tray down on House's lap.

"Somehow, breakfast in couch just doesn't have the same ring," House quipped, and Wilson grinned before returning for the other trays. Cuddy tucked Rachel into the baby carrier, gave her a pacifier, and sat down in the recliner as Wilson returned juggling two trays. House, watching him, felt a stab of envy. The days were long past when he could have carried two trays, even when his wrist wasn't broken.

They ate in silence for a while, Wilson and Cuddy trying not to be too obvious about monitoring House's intake, and being perfectly obvious anyway. House pushed himself for them, managing to get most of the way through the plate of pancakes. By the time he'd finished, he could feel the tiredness sweeping over him again like a tide in increasing waves. Damn concussion. He couldn't seem to stay alert and focused more than a few hours.

Cuddy set her tray to the side. "Do you want to move to the bedroom to take a nap? Your leg would be more comfortable there." House hesitated, and Wilson read the request that his friend didn't want to ask.

"Come on. I'll give you a hand. Purely to save myself the trouble of having to pick you up off the floor, of course." House was grateful for him making a joke of it. He removed the heating pad.

"Do you need any more meds at the moment?" Cuddy asked.

He shook his head. "More antibiotics in a few hours; I'll just take another round of everything then." He knew he wouldn't sleep past then anyway. He pushed himself to a sitting position and moved his legs over, and Wilson positioned himself on the left side again. Cuddy, following them down the hall, cringed just watching him. It obviously was excruciating to put weight on the right leg at the moment. They turned into the bedroom, and House sat down on the bed and then slowly moved his leg up.

"Wilson, go get the heating pad, would you? I forgot it." Wilson nodded at her and left the room, and Cuddy stepped across to House.

"Is there anything else you need?"

"The thought of being in your bed finally is enough at the moment," he said drowsily, and she grinned. "Although this isn't quite how I've fantasized about getting there."

"Nor me, either," she admitted, and his eyes widened in surprise.

"You've fantasized . . ."

She smiled at him. "Nice to know I can still surprise you at times," she quipped, deliberately leaving him open to determine if she had been joking or not. Her voice turned serious. "I'm glad you made it over here, House. But go ahead and ring the doorbell or call me next time. You don't have to wait outside." Her tone gave it a deeper meaning that she hoped would soak into his enforced solitude.

Wilson came back with the heating pad just then, and Cuddy got her extra pillow and arranged it under House's leg. By the time they had gotten him settled, he was already asleep.


	17. Chapter 17

_"I'm sorry, Dad. I won't do it again." Greg cringed as his father came closer._

_"Do you know what they'd do in the Corps to somebody who stayed out past their pass?"_

_"I was just 5 minutes late to eat. I was playing and lost track of time."_

_"The point is you DISOBEYED me. You know there are serious consequences to disobeying a superior officer. How are you ever going to get anywhere in the world without learning discipline?" His father reached out and put both hands on his 8-year-old son's shoulders. Greg had backed away from him down the hall, but now they had reached the end, and the staircase was behind him. Empty air behind him, his father in front. He wasn't sure which scared him more._

_"Please don't make me fall. I'm sorry."_

_His father smiled his cold smile. "You know what being sorry is worth, Greg?"_

_"No, sir." He gave the answer he thought his father wanted._

_"Nothing. It changes nothing. If you're ever going to toughen up, you need to realize that. Discipline is what makes the difference. It's too easy to say sorry, and it doesn't mean anything. Might even be a lie, because I can tell right now you aren't sorry for your disobedience this afternoon. Don't lie to me, Greg."_

_"I'm not lying." Greg gulped and took a half step back. He felt the step end under his foot. There was nothing more there. "I'm sorry, Dad. I won't do it again. Don't push me."_

_"Words don't make any difference. I'll prove it. I'm sorry, Greg." The tone was a mocking parody of his son's, and as he said it, John pushed firmly with both hands._

_Greg did not utter a sound as he fell, although his body clattered against the steps all the way down. It seemed to take forever. He opened his eyes when he was sure he was at the bottom, and he saw his left arm bent with a misplaced joint and his father coming down the stairs, still with perfect, erect military posture. "Are you crying, boy?"_

_"No, sir," Greg said in a shaky voice, fighting back the pain._

_"You'd better not be. You're already a pathetic weakling anyway." His father reached down and pulled him up one-handed, just as if he were lifting a weight in his workout. "Looks like you hurt your arm. We'll have to do some practice on falling; a good soldier just rolls and comes right back up for more. Now then, what will you say to your mother and the doctor?"_

_"I fell down the stairs," Greg mumbled. He blinked, fighting back the flood._

_"Speak up when you speak to me."_

_"I fell down the stairs, sir," Greg repeated crisply, as if giving a report._

_"And why did you fall down the stairs?" His father's grip tightened on his collar._

_"Because I'm clumsy. I'm always hurting myself. Sir." The formula was ingrained into him at this point._

_His father let go of him. "You'll never amount to anything. Don't know why I waste my time. Get in the car."_

_Fighting back tears, Greg headed for the front door. He could hear his father behind him every step of the way._

House snapped awake, gasping for air, and his leg immediately yelped at the abrupt movement. His hand went first to his arm, though, feeling the hard plaster shell.

"House." A soft voice full of gentleness and worry. He looked over at Cuddy, who was standing beside the bed. She sat down on the edge and reached for his right hand. "You're at my place, remember? It's okay."

He wanted to toss off a quip, but he was too jangled at the moment. Instead, his eyes went around the room, then returned to her face. She was running one hand through his sweaty hair now. He should have pushed her away, should have resisted, but it felt so good for the moment just to be cared for. He closed his eyes again and let himself rest, feeling his heart beat slow down gradually. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes again. "You all right?" Cuddy asked. He nodded.

"Thanks," he said hoarsely. He pushed himself up into a sitting position against the headboard of the bed, his right hand automatically going to his leg, rubbing at the sore spot that never went away.

"It's about time for you to have some more meds," Cuddy said. She stuck the thermometer in his mouth and took his blood pressure and pulse, then picked up the bottles and syringe she had set on the nightstand a few minutes earlier. "It's almost lunch time," she said. "Wilson went over to your apartment to pick up some clean clothes, and he'll bring back lunch. We thought maybe a hot bath would help your leg."

His leg twinged more sharply, as if answering the roll call. "Good idea," he mumbled around the mouthful of thermometer. Cuddy extracted it and looked at it.

"101. Not up any more, not down. We're also going to run some basic labs. Do you want morphine or Vicodin at the moment?"

"Vicodin. Save the morphine for tonight."

She nodded. "I was thinking, in a few days, when you're better physically, maybe we could try zolpidem at night. It might help."

He hesitated. He hated having to admit the need - as long as it was just morphine, they could pretend it was required by his injuries alone. A sleep aid was something else entirely. But at the same time, he knew that he couldn't stay here, that she wouldn't stay with him, that it would end, and that he would wind up back in his apartment alone. The thought of those long nights lying there trying not to go to sleep scared him. Surely it had to get better, though. Would it improve fast enough if he said nothing? "House." Cuddy's voice called him back from the abyss of his thoughts. He blinked, focusing. "I'm going to give it to you in a few days as a medical prescription. You can take it - or not - as you need each night. Your choice. But it will be there if you need it." She squeezed his good arm, then got up again. "I'll go get you a glass of water to take your Vicodin."

Normally, he would have crunched them down dry, but his throat already felt dry and irritated at the moment, as if he had been screaming in his sleep. Surely he hadn't. Had he lost that much control, that the silent screams of his dream had become voiced? What exactly had Wilson heard? What had Cuddy heard? She had mentioned him pleading with his father, had pieced together a good idea of that one episode from his agitation. But did he lose it as much as he felt like he did? Was his soul hung out in the open for anybody to see?

She came back in with the glass of water, looking competent, determined, and caring at the same time. "Where's the rugrat?" he asked, accepting the glass.

"She's down for a nap. This young, they still sleep a lot."

He finished most of the glass of water in a few gulps. Oh, that felt good. She took the glass from him and put it on the nightstand, then sat back down on the bed. When she looked at him again, his eyes were fixed on her with his thinking expression. "What is it?"

"Why are you doing this? Why am I still here?"

"You're here because you came here, House, and you came here because I invited you. Like I said, anytime you need me, just let me know. You don't even have to sit out on the doorstep. I'll let you in."

"Why?"

"Because I care about you. Not because I pity you, but because you're worth caring about." She could see that he still didn't believe it.

He switched the subject abruptly. "What did you hear me say in the dreams?"

"I told you."

"What _exactly_ did you hear me say in the dreams?"

"Don't push me. Don't make me fall. I'm sorry, Dad."

He flinched. "And every time, anybody could pick that out?" Kutner hadn't seemed shocked the other day, just concerned.

"No, actually. The first nightmare, before you regained consciousness, that one was off the charts. You were physically fighting, House. I was afraid you'd hurt yourself. But all the ones since then, anyone could see that you're dreaming, but you are also clearly trying to not be obvious. Someone would have to get their ear right up to you to be able to pick out words."

He gave a half sigh of relief. He was safe with Kutner and with the nurses on the floor. "So just you and Wilson."

"Right." She spoke confidently for both of them. "And neither one of us will ever tell a living soul unless you specifically ask us to." She could see that reassured him. The facade would still be intact in front of his team. He needed that to work. She risked a question of her own. "Is it just one dream?"

He pulled back mentally, and she kept her distance, letting him consider whether or not to answer. "It's mainly the one right now."

Then there were others. Of course, she had assumed there were. Any father who would shove his son down the stairs and force him to eat pepper had surely done other things. "They aren't always this bad, are they? I've seen you asleep a lot" - she let a smile steal across her face as she remembered all the occasions he would sneak off for naps in the clinic or in his Eames chair - "and I'd never noticed anything."

House shook his head. "It's a lot worse since I fell. Usually maybe once a month."

Guilt flooded back over her. "House, I am . . ."

'DON'T say it," he begged, and she caught herself.

"Why does that phrase bother you so much?" she asked. He looked away. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me."

Perhaps it was the permission for silence that encouraged him to answer. "That's what _he_ said. As a joke. Right before he pushed me."

Shock and pure fury swept over Cuddy like a forest fire. "That sonofabitch. I wish I'd known, so I could have helped you write a bastardogy for the funeral."

House had always loved seeing her fired up, ready to go to battle, whether with him or with the board or with Vogler. Her eyes sparkled, her shoulders drew back, and she never looked so alive to him. He smiled, the mood of the moment before vanishing like fog in the sunlight. Maybe, with her on his side at least for the moment, it was worth putting up a fight. "I'll take the zolpidem," he said abruptly.

"Good. In a few days, though. Let's get past the pure physical injuries first."

"Cuddy? House?" Wilson's voice echoed down the hall, followed by the sound of the front door closing.

Cuddy let her hand rest on House's for a minute, lying over it, her fingers stretched out along his longer ones. "Looks like it's lunchtime. And whether you're hungry or not, you're eating it." She gave his hand a squeeze and then stood up briskly, efficiently, and headed out of the bedroom to help Wilson.

"Yes, ma'am." House said, and she smiled to herself as she felt his eyes follow her derriere across the room.


	18. Chapter 18

Cuddy found Wilson in her kitchen taking lunch out of the sacks and arranging things on trays. "He's actually talking," she said softly. "Guardedly, and you can't push him, but he really is talking about it a little."

Wilson sighed. "With you, at least. Apparently, he tried to talk to me about his father on the way to the funeral, and I was too busy letting him know I'd completely moved on to even notice."

"Give him time, Wilson. I planted a trip wire on him. If we keep being here for him, hopefully he'll come around." She went on after a pause in an eerie echo of a statement made to House back when Wilson started dating Amber. "You'll never lose your friend, Wilson. He needs you." They looked at each other for a minute, each a mirror of the other's guilt and worry and the stress of the last few days, and suddenly Wilson closed the distance, wrapping her in a firm hug. They stood there for a long time, leaning on each other, and Cuddy fought back the sudden flood of tears. House would know instantly if she had been crying.

Wilson gave her a final squeeze and let go. "He needs you, too. How long are you two going to deny what's obvious?"

Cuddy's mental retreat was worthy of House. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. I've watched the two of you dance around each other for years. Both of you want more than friendship here."

"House isn't capable of . . ." Cuddy stopped as she convicted herself of the very sin she'd been trying to reform from the last few days, making judgments on him based on incomplete information. Given his models of serious relationships - Stacy's betrayal of his trust, Wilson's repeated unfaithfulness, and above all his parents' excuse for a marriage where his mother had apparently deluded herself into pretending his father's abuse didn't exist - why on earth should he think one could work? The whole idea probably scared the hell out of him, thus his constant snark and deflection. A wall is only there to conceal and protect something behind it.

Wilson waited for her thoughts to catch up with his observations. "He wants this, Cuddy. I guarantee you he wants this. He just doesn't think he deserves it."

Her phone rang at that moment, and she picked it up, glad to escape the current topic. She'd have to think about things. "Hello?"

"Hello, there's a cripple stuck back here waiting. Telling me you're going to make me eat and then not bringing anything isn't fair."

"House?" She realized that he must have picked up her cell phone, which had been charging on her nightstand, and called. "Sorry, things got a bit tangled up in the kitchen. We'll be right there. You could have just called, you know."

"I thought that's the word people used to refer to picking up a phone and pushing the buttons."

"I meant without the phone. We're only in the other end of the house."

"Didn't want to wake up the rugrat," he mumbled quickly, as if afraid he'd be caught being considerate.

Cuddy smiled. "Thanks, House. We'll be right there." She hung up and turned to Wilson. "He's either hungry or impatient."

"Or curious," Wilson added. "Let's hope it's hungry." He picked up two of the trays, and Cuddy took the other one.

House was sitting up in bed waiting when they entered the bedroom. "What took so long? If all that was talking about food, it must be more interesting to discuss than I'd thought."

"And even more interesting to eat," Wilson dodged. He set a tray across House's lap. "Your favorite burger from Rigby's Corner Grill, plus a chocolate milkshake. I didn't get you fries, but I have a double order, so you can steal mine." He sat down on the other side of the bed, as did Cuddy, with their food between them. House glanced at Cuddy's chef's salad and rolled his eyes.

"It's healthy," she stated, taking a bite. "And delicious."

"You know, the world wouldn't end if you had a burger," House pointed out.

"How can I be sure? I'd hate to try it and be wrong on that."

House gave an appreciative chuff at her quip and then reached across for a few of Wilson's fries. Conversation continued in a light vein through the meal, all three of the friends enjoying for the moment pretending that things were normal when all of them knew they weren't. House stopped about 2/3 of the way through the burger. "Can't eat any more," he said.

"Finish the milkshake," Wilson ordered.

"I've probably finished the equivalent of a medium one by now."

"Too bad. I bought you large."

A couple more slurps, and it was gone. "There. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," said Wilson, deadpan. He took the last bite of his own burger. "Okay, you want to try a hot bath? We thought it might uncramp your leg. I brought you clothes from your place." House glanced at the cast on his left arm. "We can just put a trash bag and duct tape over the cast and try to keep it out of the way."

House sighed at the word "we," but he knew that with his left arm useless and his right leg much worse than usual, he had no chance of managing a bath without a good bit of help. A hot soak did sound good, though. "Okay," he said, eyes on his mostly empty tray, not looking at his friends.

Cuddy stood up. "I'll go run one. The duct tape is in the kitchen drawer, Wilson. Trash bags over the sink." Wilson stacked the empty trays and headed back down the hall.

Left alone for the moment, House carefully edged his right leg over, supporting it with his right hand and his protruding left fingers, and sat on the side of the bed. The leg immediately ramped up its complaint. Even with the diazepam to combat full-blown spasms, it was annoyed and was telling him so in no uncertain terms. He rubbed at the scar for a minute, wishing that his fingers could dig the pain out. Then he grabbed onto Cuddy's nightstand firmly with his right hand and levered himself to his feet, his right toes barely touching the floor for balance.

"What are you doing?" Wilson came back in and immediately dropped the trash bags and duct tape on the bed and gripped House's left elbow to add support.

"I'm trying to stand up on my own," House snapped. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Wilson reminded himself again how frustrating physical life was at the moment for House, even worse than usual. "Why don't you wait until after the bath? That will help more, and you can probably walk then." He picked up the duct tape and trash bag again with his left hand and positioned himself under House's left arm. "Come on, let's head for the bathroom." As they were slowly hobbling down the hall, Rachel woke up in the nursery and started crying, and Cuddy emerged from the bathroom and flattened herself efficiently against the wall, slipping past the two men without breaking stride. House was torn between admiration and envy at her ease of movement.

Once they were in the bathroom, Wilson made sure House had a good grip on the edge of the sink counter, then said, "I'll get the clean clothes. Be back in a minute." House was grateful to his friend for giving him at least a few seconds of privacy. He peed and then worked his pants the rest of the way down and sat down on the toilet lid to wiggle them off his ankles. Taking off the shirt was challenging itself, the main objective being not to sock himself with the cast. He felt like a cartoon character, with the injured parts pulsing out twice the size of normal, just waiting to be hit on something. He had deliberately left the hardest for last, removing his socks. Such a simple act, probably something most people didn't think twice about, but removing socks and shoes was hard for House routinely, much harder now between the leg and the wrist. He hooked his right sock in his left toes and got it off without difficulty, but he knew better than to try that using his right leg. The slight rotation of the thigh and pressure required would have been guaranteed to send it into a spasm. Bending over to try reaching to the floor with his right arm made his now low-grade but still present headache immediately kick back up. With a sigh, he sat there on the closed toilet wearing only his left sock. He studied his thigh in detail for the first time since he had fallen in his office. It was definitely more swollen than usual, with some bruising along it, and generally looked annoyed. Maybe he should have asked the sitter to call Cuddy last night. It hadn't occurred to him that she would be hours getting home, that she and Wilson would be searching for him.

Wilson knocked at the bathroom door, then came in with House's clean clothes and put them on the edge of the sink. Without a word or any indication of awkwardness, he removed House's left sock, then looked over at the tub. "What do you think is the best strategy here?" They might have been discussing a ball game on television, and House felt another surge of gratitude for his friend. Wilson could be over caring and psychoanalyzing at times, but he also had an almost unparalleled knack to be matter-of-fact when things were the most difficult physically.

"I think if I sit on the edge of the tub, we can lift the leg over. Might need some help with that."

Wilson nodded and without a word steadied him as he stood and pivoted the few steps. House sat on the edge of the tub as Wilson carefully wrapped and taped the cast, and then he tried picking up his leg with his right hand. It immediately yelped. "Scoot back a little bit and lean against the wall," Wilson suggested. "I'll pick up the ankle and get it straight along the edge of the tub first." House scooted back, and Wilson with infinite care picked up his ankle, going slowly, watching the muscles around House's eyes as his cue when to proceed and when to pause a second. Finally, the leg was straight along the length of the tub. House nodded and then pivoted slowly to the inside, Wilson following with the ankle, carefully keeping the leg straight, then lowering House's foot into the tub on the other side of the rim. He then steadied House while his friend moved his left leg over on his own - not nearly as difficult - and House slid down into the water with a sigh of relief.

"Does that feel good?"

House nodded. It felt beyond good. The heat soaked deeply into his leg, and he could picture the offended muscles relaxing one by one. He closed his eyes and just let himself enjoy it for a few minutes. Finally, he opened them again. Wilson was sitting on the closed toilet, waiting patiently. House started to wash himself as best he could one handed, and Wilson waited until he had done as much as he could, then came over without comment to finish the rest of it. "You want to shave?" Wilson asked, the first remark either of them had made in over 5 minutes. "I brought your shaver over in case you felt like trimming up a bit. Might be easier here than standing at the sink. No mirror here, though." He deliberately left the third option unspoken, the one where Wilson simply did it himself.

House hesitated, considering pros and cons. "Might as well feed your need to help out," he said, and Wilson grinned.

"Right, I go into withdrawal if I don't hit my daily quota. You'd hate to have that on your conscience, wouldn't you?"

"But do it like I do. Go too far, and I'll spend my recuperation just thinking up revenge. And I can tell you, it won't be pretty."

Wilson trimmed his beard back down to the usual light scruff, going very carefully around the sutured laceration and bruising. House held his head still, but he could tell his friend was aware how sensitive most of that side of his face was. Wilson finished and surveyed his efforts. "Not bad. You still look like something out of a horror movie, but at least it's not a bad one anymore."

"Strictly high budget," House retorted. Then he said much more softly, "Thanks."

"Anytime. But let's not try to do this too often. You ready to get out?"

House nodded. "Water's starting to cool off, anyway. I don't want to stay here for that." With Wilson's help, he levered himself up to sitting on the side of the tub, then swung the left leg and the right leg over again, still with difficulty but with much less than they had had getting him in. Wilson tossed a towel at him and then unwrapped his cast and knelt to put on House's clean socks. He got up smoothly, handing him the rest of the clean clothes. "I'll go throw these in Cuddy's laundry room." He picked up the dirty laundry and left the room, leaving House to get dressed on his own.

House felt almost halfway human as he pulled his shirt on, then pulled the boxers and pants up most of the way before standing up. Left fingers around Cuddy's towel rack, right hand firmly on his cane, he stood up. Better. Not normal, but much better. He propped his shoulder against the wall long enough to free his hands to finish pulling his pants up. Then, he took a tentative step with the cane, still staying close to the wall in case. It was hard, but it was manageable. The hot bath had done wonders for his leg. Better get on out, before Wilson's good intentions were outweighed by his worry and curiosity. He had no doubt his friend was right outside. He limped heavily to the door and opened it.

Wilson was indeed right outside, hovering and trying not to look like it. "I need to draw some blood, too. We wanted to do some basic labs at the hospital."

"Better go back to the bedroom, then. It'll be easier for you with me lying down than with me standing up in the hall." In truth, House was starting to be overcome by tiredness again, and the hot bath had left him feeling relaxed and increasingly sleepy. Another nap was sounding good at the moment.

"Right." Wilson picked up the verbal baton easily. "I failed blood drawing from standing patients in a hallway in med school, so the bedroom would be much better." He let House walk down the hall on his own ahead of him, although he stayed close enough for a save if needed. As they passed the nursery door, House glanced in and was stopped in his tracks.

Cuddy was sitting in her rocking chair, rocking Rachel and humming to her. The baby was looking up in pure well-fed trust, and Cuddy was looking down in absolute devotion, tenderness, and love. She realized House was in the doorway and looked up, giving him a warm smile. "Feeling better?"

"Yes." The tableau of her holding the baby, caring for the baby, protecting the baby suddenly crystalized something in his mind. She had always wanted a child, someone to care for, an outlet for her oversized and hormonally enhanced maternal instincts. Images from the last few days swept like a flood over him. Cuddy running soft hands through his hair, comforting him after a nightmare. Cuddy's fingers stretched out on top of his. Cuddy stroking the back of his hand with her thumb as he fell asleep. Cuddy's look that he had been unable to totally pin down, the look that he had thought would be pity but that he knew wasn't. He had it now. Her guilt over causing his fall and her new knowledge of his awful childhood had tripped off her maternal instincts, already accelerated at the moment because of Rachel. He was just an oversized child for her to care for. That was why she was so attentive and compassionate lately, and that was why she was letting him stay here. Of course she loved it - she had always wanted a child, and now she had two. He turned away so quickly that he almost stumbled, and Wilson grabbed his torso from behind, steadying him.

"You okay?"

"Great. Just tired. I think it's time for another nap." Yet another way it was like dealing with a baby. He limped heavily the rest of the way to Cuddy's bedroom and sat down on her bed, lifting his leg up. He leaned back and closed his eyes, shutting out the environment he'd always dreamed of, but not like this.

Wilson was confused. His friend's whole mood had changed when Cuddy had smiled at him, and he couldn't see why. "House? Is anything wrong?"

"Nope. Everything's fine here, thanks. Except that I'm still getting over several injuries." His eyes stayed closed. Wilson rested one hand on his forehead. It didn't feel any warmer, even after the hot bath, but it concerned him that House didn't even make a token objection or comment, didn't swat at his hand or retreat a little further into the pillow. He decided to get another set of vitals. Something wasn't right here. Wilson slipped the thermometer into House's mouth and then ran pulse, BP, and listened to his chest. It actually sounded a little clearer. Hopefully the antibiotics were kicking in. He pulled the thermometer out and looked at it.

"100.6. And that's after a hot bath. Looks like you're starting to get better."

"Yep. I'll be all better soon and stop bothering you two."

"You aren't . . ." Wilson stopped himself. House really did need rest. Maybe he was just overtired after all the physical exertion of the bath. "I'm still going to draw some blood, though. Won't hurt to get labs, just to double check things." He had put the syringe and tourniquet on the nightstand a few minutes earlier, while waiting for House to get dressed. He slipped the tourniquet on, tied it off, and found a vein. House didn't react to any of it, not even the needle going in. "You sure nothing else is wrong? No new symptoms you aren't sharing with us?"

"No new symptoms," House replied. His eyes were still shut. "I'm just tired."

"Okay. I'll leave you alone, then." Wilson pulled the sheet and blanket up over his friend, then picked up the vial of blood and the tourniquet and headed out of the bedroom. He turned back at the door, looking at him. House looked better after the bath and shave, but something was definitely off. "I'm going to the hospital to run labs. I'll see you later, House. Have a good nap."

House lay there awake after his friend left, his mind running over his new observations, checking off matching ones on a mental whiteboard. It all fit. For the first time since his accident, he was glad when sleep pulled him under, allowing him even if just for the next hour or two to escape everything.


	19. Chapter 19

Thanks for all the great reviews, folks! A note about Huddiness and directions: I will never get all the way into explicit smut, as first of all, I've always thought that it's actually more evocative to leave something to the reader's imagination, rather than many paragraphs long second-by-second account with every single detail recorded, and second of all, I will always be a fan first and foremost of plot and character. That's what I like to read. Great shippiness without plot doesn't work for me. So if you're waiting for the entire chapter that consists solely of describing how House and Cuddy finally get it on, it isn't coming. I also dislike the "magic solution" gimick where one conversation, one word, one great time of sex, suddenly makes birds fly down from the trees like Disney and everything to be roses from here on. We will wind up with House and Cuddy together, but it's still got a bit to go yet, and it also ends with room for a sequel, not a cliffhanger, but room to go on. Not everything is resolved 100% and tied up neatly with a bow, because life isn't usually like that. I wasn't sure how reception to this first one would be when blocking it out, so the sequel wasn't assured, just possible. My schedule will resume its regular level of hecticness in about another week, so any sequel probably isn't going to get updated as fast as this one.

Anyhow, thanks for reading, thanks for reviewing, and enjoy chapter 19!

(H/C)

Cuddy played with Rachel for a while, knowing that House was sleeping again. When the baby fell asleep again about an hour later, Cuddy tucked her in, then softly entered her bedroom.

House was sound asleep for the moment, although she doubted he would maintain that much longer. Sleep was a seesaw at the moment between his healing body's demands and his nightmares. She walked over to the other side of the bed and sat down against the headboard, her legs stretched out along the mattress, taking advantage of the opportunity to study him. She needed to think.

Cuddy would have said a year ago that she and House were in a stable, mutually enjoyed tug-of war of barbs and sexual innuendos without an actual relationship beyond friends and that both wanted to keep it that way. This last year, though, had changed things, even before he had fallen. He had shown her more potential in recent months, relationship-wise, than he ever had. He had given her the desk. He had come to her on the dark night after she had lost Joy, had comforted her, and then had refused to take advantage on a night when he could have. Her defenses that evening had been nonexistent. He seemed this year to be trying to reach out, in a shielded Housian way. Wilson's departure after Amber's death had shaken him far more than he'd shown, she knew. Did the prospect of losing his best friend make him realize anew that he wanted more from relationships, more with her, even though he was afraid to fully admit it and act on it himself? All she knew was that flames from 20 years ago, smoldering as warm, toasty embers over the years at work, were suddenly flickering up again between them this year and had been even before her prank.

Could something actually work between them? The thought both attracted and frightened her. Embers were warming but manageable. Fire could be dangerous.

On the other hand, she was still working out her new role as a mother, although she was already discovering and feeling guilty about the fact that it didn't complete her world and displace all other lack. In spite of all those mothers she read about who were totally and immediately fulfilled by their child, it hadn't been that way for her. That fact before they started to bond had worried her that she would fail at this, and that fact even after she and Rachel had made a connection was what had made her lash out so irresponsibly and so thoughtlessly at House. At _House_. The brunt of all of her confusion was automatically him. It wasn't that he made her come back to work away from Rachel. It was that he above all still represented something she lacked, even when she had told herself she should be content with her new baby. So she had reacted as he normally did, subconsciously taking him as her model, pushing away and deflecting off the undesired subject, but she had done it without his analysis of any situation. He took awful risks with the patients, but they were always calculated risks. She, on the other hand, had merely lashed out before thinking with consequences that could have been disastrous. She shuddered, thinking again that she could have lost him. Not only him, but any possibility for what she knew she wanted, just as much as she had wanted Rachel.

His more-complete background was filling in chinks in retrospect for her, but House would always be so much more than the product of his parents. Genius is by definition outside of usual experience. She wanted him, she admitted to herself in the privacy of her thoughts. Not the lost boy, not the snarky doctor, not any piece in isolation, but the incredible whole of him, including the emotions and sensitivity that she had always sensed ran deep under his front. She did think that talking through the abuse, exorcizing old ghosts, might help him deal with all of his old memories she had reawakened, but did she have any right to ask him to risk exposing so much of himself when she was still being a coward and hiding her own thoughts from him?

"Do you think there is a chance for us?" she asked him softly. Better to take that chance on the hope that it would work out or to stay safe and unfulfilled behind the walls?

House shifted, as if in response to her musings, and muttered something under his breath. She looked at her watch. Right on schedule. She wished he could have just one solid several-hour period of rest, without drugs required. She reached over and touched him gently, seeing if she could settle him down a bit and derail the dream without its ending in that leg-jarring jolt into wakefulness. He twisted away from her touch, though, and his agitation kicked up several levels. "No!" The murmurings were getting more audible. He swung at something with his left arm abruptly and, overbalanced by the cast, nearly fell off the edge of the bed. Cuddy grabbed his shoulders just in time, dragging him back.

"House!" This was worse than the others, the most vivid dream he had had since his original nightmare. "HOUSE! Wake up!" She shook him.

"NO!" He actually screamed it as he bolted upright to a sitting position, nearly banging heads with her. His wild eyes met her worried ones. He was gasping for air.

"House? You okay?"

He sank back against the pillows and swallowed. His right hand went immediately to his leg, which was notifying him again of its objection to tossing, turning, and sudden movements after sitting outside on cold concrete for 3 hours. "Fine," he said. "Just a dream. Hadn't you better go check on Rachel or something?"

"She's asleep. I've been playing with her most of the time you were out. That dream seemed more vivid that the others - except that first one. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Just peachy," he replied lightly. His fingers kneaded at his leg, and Cuddy walked around the bed to pick up the heating pad from the foot of the bed, turn it on again, and started to put it over his thigh. "It's fine," House said. "You don't need to worry."

"Do you need some more diazepam? Did you take anymore after that dose I gave you before lunch?" She wanted to try to talk to him about her own confusions and feelings, as a break from pushing on his, but they needed to get him comfortable after the dream first.

"STOP IT!" House came back to an upright position so quickly that he jolted his leg again. "All I need is some peace and quiet to heal, and I'm not going to get it with you hovering. Go exercise your guilt complex and bonding hormones elsewhere."

Cuddy nearly dropped the heating pad, stunned at the sharp edge on his tone, far sharper than usual even for his snarky moods. "House? What's wrong?"

House gave an exaggerated eye roll. "What's WRONG? Shall we start with the trip wire and go down it point by point? No, actually, let's start with the stairs. Do you need a diagram?"

She studied him worriedly. All of his shields and extra ones were suddenly back into place, his comments laced with extra vinegar. She knew him well enough to know that such a sharp reaction was an extreme deflection. What was it he didn't want to discuss? Was he just tired of talking about the abuse at the moment? No, her instincts told her. There was something more here, something he was desperately trying to hide. She reached out to put a hand on his forehead and was able to determine that his fever was still slowly decreasing, although he smacked her hand away quickly, using his casted left arm as a club since his right hand was still working his leg. "We don't have to talk about your childhood any more right now if you don't want to. I told you you could set the pace on that. I understand."

He shook his head in frustration. "You don't understand half of what you think you do. Go back to your child - at least temporarily your child, anyway - and let me alone. I'm going to move back to my place."

Cuddy's medical instincts joined the fight as ally to her confusion. "You aren't nearly mobile enough yet to stay on your own safely."

"You said yourself yesterday afternoon that I'd be discharged in another day."

"I said another day OR two, and that was before you broke out and spent 3 hours aggravating your leg much more and doing your best to give yourself pneumonia. You're obviously fighting off some infection, which we fortunately got on top of almost immediately with the antibiotics after your little stunt, but you still need to be monitored, and you can barely walk." She sighed. "This is ridiculous, House. You can go back to your apartment if you want, but not alone. You really should have gone back to the hospital last night."

His whole face was set in lines of stubbornness. "You can't keep me against my will."

"You CAME here, remember? Who's keeping you against your will?" She abruptly wondered if she had fallen asleep herself and was dreaming this whole conversation. She pinched herself. Nope, she was awake, and she was pretty sure he was.

He swung his leg over as he sat up on the side of the bed, then drew in his breath with a sharp hiss, using his left fingers as best he could along with his right. "Oh, right, you CLEARLY have no reason for us to think you still need monitoring," Cuddy snapped, and then reminded herself firmly not to rise to the bait, not to let him deflect from whatever the main issue was here by pushing her buttons. He was far too good at it. She schooled her voice back down to reasonableness. "House, I've already said you don't have to talk if you don't want to. Your choice. I won't push you."

House gripped his cane so hard that his knuckles turned white and lurched to his feet, obviously hurting and obviously trying not to show it. "GO BACK TO RACHEL!" He yelled. As if on cue, Rachel woke up at the loud voices and started crying in the nursery. "See? She needs you."

Cuddy was getting close to losing her temper herself. "Look, you jackass, I don't know what your problem is at the moment, but don't take it out on a child. She didn't do anything to you." She quickly ran over to the nursery and scooped up Rachel, soothing her for a minute, and then returned with the whimpering child on her shoulder. She was just in time to see House take a step toward freedom and have his right leg totally go out on him. Cuddy had her arms full and was too far away to reach him anyway, although she made a one-handed effort. He saved himself by falling back onto the bed in a movement that she thought with a pang looked almost practiced.

Tense silence descended, broken only by Rachel's decreasing whimpers and by House's accelerated breathing. He rubbed his leg fiercely, head bowed. Cuddy knew he was overdue for another dose of diazepam as well as Vicodin, and his acrobatics during his nightmare and since had probably undone much of the effect of the bath. She forced herself not to offer, though, not to express concern just yet. For a minute, she gave him the space he suddenly and inexplicably wanted. Her own thoughts replayed this crazy conversation, looking for any clue, envying his lightning-quick analysis. Rachel was almost silent again, snuggling against her warmth like a kitten, and Cuddy felt grateful suddenly that at least one of the two other people in the room she was able to reach and connect with.

But they had been doing so well. What on earth had changed in his mind since a few hours ago to provoke such a violent and frantic deflection? They had been fine during lunch. He had taken the bath with Wilson's help and had seemed better afterwards, walking on his own, even if limping much more heavily than usual. He had said he was feeling better when he stopped in the door of the nursery and she had smiled at him while she was rocking Rachel.

Rachel. She suddenly realized how often in this crazy conversation he had mentioned Rachel - and even sometimes by name, which he almost never did. She knew part of him was jealous of the child, afraid she would change the relationship between them and crowd him out, but that was a worry a few weeks old, not a few hours. All defenses had been snapped into place already when he woke up, even in the immediate aftermath of the nightmare. The change had to have come between his leaving the bathroom and his going to sleep, when he had stopped in the hallway and looked at them. So why would seeing her with Rachel suddenly and so acutely bother House?

It clicked into place with an almost painful snap. "You think I'm treating you like Rachel? That I feel for you like I do for Rachel? Because you had a lousy birth family too? Is that it?" He straightened up, startled at her perception. She almost wanted to laugh. Maternal was the last emotion she felt toward House. She carefully put Rachel - almost asleep again - down on the bed and locked his face between her hands, lightening up a bit on the grip on her right hand when she felt him wince. "Trust me, I do NOT want to be your mother. All the things I've ever dreamed of having with you, including the last few days, aren't anywhere close to that." She leaned over and kissed him, at first as a challenge, then melting into it, feeling him respond, feeling herself respond, as two embers combined burst into one fierce flame. She wasn't aware when his hands left his leg, but when time started again, they were wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into him. Deliberately, she pulled away, breaking it, leaving him hanging. "That's not maternal. So add that to your differential and try another diagnosis." She picked up the diazepam bottle and a syringe off the nightstand, as well as his Vicodin and handed them to him. Then she picked up Rachel again, said "Call me if you need anything," and left the room, giving him some thinking space, leaving him sitting on the side of the bed, his blue eyes still stunned.


	20. Chapter 20

When Wilson knocked and then immediately went ahead and opened the door to Cuddy's house an hour later, he found Cuddy at the kitchen table, a few baby toys scattered around, with Rachel nearly through a bottle and looking drowsy. Wilson set down the paperwork he was carrying. "Cuddy?" Her eyes were intently analyzing her refrigerator, not Rachel and not him. "Hello?" He waved his hand in front of her eyes, and she jumped slightly. "Is he asleep?"

"I doubt it."

Wilson sighed. Apparently, he was going to get two rounds of trying to figure out what was behind a stone wall instead of one. Those two were so much alike at times. "Okay, House. Which conversation are we going to have here? The agile evasion? The pure denial of problems? The stony silence? The reflexive lash-back? Let me know, so I can get the right decoder ring."

Cuddy started to stiffen up - the pure denial, he thought - but then abruptly smiled. "Do I really sound like him? That's frightening."

"Quite often, and yes. What happened?"

It was her turn to sigh. "He definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed, House at his absolute worst, and tossed off a few especially vicious comments."

"So you're wondering why?"

"No, I figured out why." Wilson raised an eyebrow, both impressed and curious. "He apparently had concluded that I am in effect trying to adopt him as a second child, to feed my oversized maternal instinct."

Wilson had to laugh; he couldn't help it. The idea of Cuddy wanting to be House's mother was comical. "Did you tell him he was wrong?"

Her eyes returned to the refrigerator. "It wasn't quite phrased like that."

"So what did you say?" He looked at her for a few seconds. "Wait a minute, you didn't say anything. You SHOWED him, didn't you?"

"He was pushing my buttons, and I responded without thinking it through first."

Wilson sat down at the table, putting himself between her and the refrigerator. "Go on."

"I, um, kissed him." She finished feeding Rachel and set the empty bottle on the table, putting the baby up on her shoulder.

"How much of a kiss are we talking about? What was the wow factor?"

She started to smile in memory before she caught herself. "I don't think he possibly could have interpreted anything about it as maternal."

"And now you're regretting it? No, wait, not regretting it, just afraid you jumped off a cliff by yourself and he'll leave you out there."

"Do you realize how annoying you can be at times? Ever thought of changing specialties to psych?"

"I've been told that before. By someone else in this house, as a matter of fact." She couldn't stay annoyed at him, any more than House could. He was too good a friend. She relaxed her posture. "Seriously, you two should hear yourselves at times. Trust me, Cuddy, you aren't the only one terrified, but you aren't the only one off that cliff. As you were telling me earlier, we can't push him, but hopefully he'll talk about it eventually." Rachel let out a loud burp, and they both snickered, the moment broken.

"Are those the labs?" Cuddy took the baby off her shoulder and reached for the papers on the table.

"Right." Wilson spread out two groups of papers in front of here. "This is today, and these are his admission labs a few days ago. White count is up, which is new today, but it's not way up. His fever is starting to decrease, and his lungs sounded better after lunch than this morning, too. He's clearly fighting off an infection, but he is fighting it off. If you hadn't gotten him on antibiotics right away after his deep freeze, he'd probably have pneumonia setting in by now. The other values are all pretty consistent, nothing outstanding. Liver functions are amazingly good. The only other thing I noticed is sed rate. That's up too, and higher today than after he was first hurt. Not high enough to make me suspect some underlying process besides injury, but it is high."

"Inflammation," Cuddy said. "It absolutely hurts to watch him try to walk or even move. Last night really did a number on his leg, even more than I'd already done in the first place." Wilson nodded. "I have checked the peripheral pulses, and they're good. I think I'll add some ibuprofen for him. Acetaminophen doesn't have an anti-inflammatory effect. We'll try high-dose ibuprofen and recheck tomorrow. Could go on up to indomethacin or another strong agent if needed, but let's try keeping it simple."

"With the added advantage that we can use NSAIDs as another argument to try to get him to eat good meals."

"Right." She hesitated. "He said that his father used to dump pepper all over his food and force him to eat it to toughen him up." Wilson's fists clenched reflexively. "His father also told him he was sorry - as a joke - right before he pushed him down the stairs and broke his arm."

"So that's why . . . he always has avoided that phrase, come to think of it." Wilson drummed his fingers on the file in agitation. "If I'd bothered to listen to him on the way to that funeral, I would have turned around before we got there."

"If EITHER of us had bothered to listen to him, we wouldn't have drugged him and made him go in the first place." She looked down at the now-sleeping baby in her arms. "It's getting close to time to eat again, and he'll need some more antibiotics. I'll go put Rachel down, and you show him the labs. Let's try not to make him feel excluded from his care decisions."

"And you want me to be the first one to talk to him, so you can delay it a little longer." She started to deny it, then realized there wasn't any point. "Okay, I'll test the waters."

They started down the hall together, with Cuddy turning toward the nursery, and Wilson knocked on the open bedroom door before entering. House was sitting up in bed, his legs stretched out, the heating pad once more draped across his thigh. His blue eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the opposite wall in his intense thinking expression. "House? Got your labs." Not wanting to startle him and make him jump with his annoyed leg, Wilson stayed by the doorway, rustling the pages gently. "House."

The eyes clicked and shifted on about the fourth repetition, and Wilson came over, extending the paperwork. "Hot off the presses. Plus your admission labs for comparison." House didn't reply at first but flipped quickly through the paperwork. The speed at which he could pick out the pertinent details on any chart had always amazed Wilson.

"I'd better keep up with the antibiotics," House mused. "The only other thing is the sed rate, but that's not surprising."

"After your initial injuries, plus three hours sitting outside on cold concrete, no, it isn't. Cuddy thought we might add ibuprofen." House considered and then nodded. "Of course, you know that needs to be taken with a full meal as a GI precaution."

"Right. The whole thing is just a carefully laid strategy to get me to eat more."

"You guessed it. I faked lab values and everything. Amazing the lengths I'll go to." Wilson grinned, relieved at a small bit of normal-sounding banter. "I'll go cook dinner in a few minutes."

Cuddy came through the door at that minute. "Rachel's down. She'll probably want an evening bottle in a few hours, but we should have a nice gap to eat before then." She looked directly at House, her face and tone brisk, only her twitching fingers betraying nervousness. "How are you feeling? Is the cramping any better?" she added, making it clear that it was a physical question and that she wasn't trying to trap him into a discussion if he didn't want it.

"Some better. The heating pad helps, and I took some more diazepam."

"Well, I'll go start dinner," Wilson said, edging past Cuddy and out into the hall.

"Need any help?" she asked, not certain which answer she was hoping for.

"No, I've got it under control." He exited, and House and Cuddy were left looking at each other, then simultaneously looking away. Cuddy walked around the bed and sat down on the far side, keeping a space between them, not crowding him.

Silence descended, a silence heavy with possible comments. "I didn't mean to wake up Rachel," House said finally.

"Yes you did," Cuddy retorted, and the ghost of a smile swept across House's face. "I didn't mean to introduce the subject I did quite that abruptly - but I meant what I said." She had already jumped off the cliff, after all. There was no way to qualify her earlier actions.

"And what you did?" The ghost of a smile edged a little closer to life.

"And what I did." She smiled herself. "But I won't push you. We don't have to discuss any subject until you're ready."

He looked out the bedroom door, fighting down the feeling of terror he'd been wrestling with for the last hour. Desire for what was offered, terror that it wouldn't work. He remembered one day years ago when he had jokingly stated to Cuddy - in an effort to dodge clinic duty - that he could run home. Her reply with pointed glance at his leg had been, "No, you can't." Crippled emotionally as well as physically, he wished that he at least had the option of running, but he wasn't sure he did. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Okay, he was sure he didn't want to. But how could a relationship work between them? There were too many obstacles. She deserved so much better. And there was Rachel now, too, and the idea of being any sort of father figure set off loud alarms for him. With such an example, how could he help doing anything but screw it up?

Cuddy waited until his stare out the door was a bit less fixed and she thought he had a chance of hearing her, then asked, "Do you want to move back to your place tonight?" He looked over at her, startled until he remembered his earlier comment. "You're welcome to stay here, but if you want to go home, you can. But not alone. You aren't ready yet, strictly medically. Wilson and I can take turns."

He considered what she was offering, far more than just physical location. She was giving further evidence to her statement that she wouldn't push him. She understood the need for space and for retreat at times. "Let's see how I feel later," he said, deliberately leaving it ambiguous whether he meant physically or emotionally. Of course, he knew that medically she was right. Any place, he was not ready to be alone. Damn leg.

"It's your choice," she said, smiling at him.

He hesitated. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

His eyes met hers directly, probing. "Why haven't you ever mentioned the desk? Did you not like it?"

"I absolutely loved it. That's one of the nicest things you've ever done for me. I think about you every day when I enter the office and see it."

"Then why . . ." He trailed off.

She sighed. "I went up to your office that night after the office was done. I was going to thank you. I saw you with a woman in your office . . . and I didn't want to disturb you." She still remembered the bitter disappointment. The sweet romantic one moment, the crass jackass the next. That was House. She saw the details click in his mind, his epiphany look.

"She wasn't . . . it wasn't what you thought. I had found out that Kutner and Taub were running an online clinic under my name, and I hired her to play a patient and give them a good scare, remind them that they still had a long way to go medically. She spent hours playing a patient, increasing complications, and finally 'died' on them." He smiled at the memory, a true smile. "And then I 'resurrected' her on the table in the morgue. Scared the hell out of them."

Cuddy laughed. "I would have liked to see that."

"Anyway, she still had a little bit of time left that I'd paid her for. She came back up to my office, and I was joking with her about the time she still owed me - but I went home alone." His thoughts had all been down in Cuddy's office, not on the overly attentive and not half-as-desireable woman in his office.

It was Cuddy's turn to understand. "I thought . . ." Well, it was clear what she had thought.

"And that's why you never mentioned the desk?" She nodded. "I thought . . ." It was his turn to break off, eyes retreating to the door.

Cuddy abruptly replayed the tag to his initial question. He thought she didn't like it. He thought that his largest overture, the one he had invested so much time, money, thought, and effort into hadn't pleased her. Either that or that she simply wasn't interested. He thought he had failed, just as no doubt he had been told over and over by his father that all fault was always on his part. "I loved it, House. From that first night. Every day since. That was the perfect gift."

His posture relaxed, as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders, but he didn't turn to face her. She gave him space, but the silence between them was more relaxed now.

Wilson's footsteps were heard coming down the hall. "Almost ready. You want to eat in here?"

House shook his head. "I ought to move around a bit." He removed the heating pad and gingerly dragged his leg over until he was sitting on the bedside. As he was occupied with turning, Wilson looked over at Cuddy, raising one eyebrow. She gave him a tentative smile, still with some uncertainty behind it but a smile.

Some progress, even if there were still miles to go, Wilson thought as he went over to help House up. Better than he had feared. He hadn't expected anything with these two to be simple. "Okay, on three. One, two, three."

House lurched to his feet, gripping the cane but accepting Wilson's support, too. His leg wasn't as bad as earlier after an hour of the heating pad and more diazepam, but it still was far from normal.

Far from normal. A good assessment of everything at the moment. But was normal what he wanted to get back to?

"You ready?" Wilson asked after they had stood there for a minute. He was giving House time to feel out his leg at the moment, but his friend's eyes were going off into infinity again, and Wilson was keenly aware of the cooking meal in the other room.

House blinked and nodded. "Let's go."


	21. Chapter 21

House pushed the tray slightly away, psychologically more than physically distancing himself from it. "That's all I want."

"No, it's not," Wilson stated, "because we haven't had dessert yet. Chocolate pudding." He took the tray to the kitchen and returned with pudding cups and a spoon for each of them. Remembering House's battle a few days ago with a Jell-O cup, he opened House's before handing it to him, trying to be subtle about it and failing. House glared at him.

"Remember, you just had 800 mg of ibuprofen," Cuddy said.

"Yes, mother," House quipped, picking up the spoon. Cuddy grinned at his tone, relieved that he could joke about it.

"I'm not your mother, House," she reminded him, still lightly.

"Who said anything about you? I meant Wilson." Both Wilson and Cuddy laughed at that one. They shared some light and refreshingly normal-sounding banter while eating the pudding, and then Wilson collected the empty dessert cups and headed back into the kitchen. A minute later, they heard running water.

"Wilson, you don't have to do the dishes," Cuddy called out. "You cooked the meal." Either he didn't hear her over the water, or he just ignored her.

"Actually, he does have to do the dishes," House replied. "He's psychologically unable to leave things alone. They're thinking of making it a new diagnosis. Wilsonian meddling syndrome."

Cuddy grinned, then abruptly looked serious again. "How are you feeling?"

"A little better," House said ambiguously. It was his turn to look serious. "It's a lot to think about. I don't know if . . ." He trailed off.

"It's okay." She moved over to sit on the coffee table, next to the couch, and reached out for his hand. "We have time, House. It's already taken 20 years. Just don't ever delude yourself that all the feelings - or the confusion, or the fear - are one-sided."

"I'll stay here tonight," House said abruptly. "Before the end of the weekend, though, I need to move back to my place. You'll go to work Monday, and I'd just be in the way here with the rugrat and the nanny."

"I could stay home Monday."

"No." His voice was definite. "The job is part of your life. Just like Rachel now. And Wilson needs to work, too."

She realized that he probably wanted some private thinking time, and he would hopefully be more mobile by Monday. "Okay, provided you can get around your apartment all right. But one of us is bringing you dinner."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm nearly 50, Cuddy. Haven't starved yet."

"God only knows why." There came a crash from the kitchen, startling them both, immediately followed by a curse. Cuddy gave House's hand a squeeze and stood up.

"Wilson?" She entered the kitchen to find the oncologist staring mournfully at a wet pile of soap suds and glass shards in the kitchen floor.

"Sorry. One of the wet plates slipped out of my hand."

"Never mind. I've dropped my share." She fished the broom out from alongside the refrigerator.

"I'll get it," Wilson insisted, taking it from her.

"You're washing dishes. After cooking the meal in the first place. You've done enough, Wilson."

He sighed and dropped his voice. "At least the kitchen is easy to clean up. A little effort, and you've got it all finished."

She nodded. "I was just thinking earlier with Rachel that I wished everything could be fixed with a bottle and a few minutes of cuddling. Not that I want to be his mother," she added, realizing how that sounded.

"Trust me, _I_ believe you." Wilson finished sweeping up the broken plate and dumped the pieces in the trash. He returned to the sink and washed the last few plates, and Cuddy started drying the dishes and putting them away. Wilson was right. There was such satisfaction in complete repair of a mess so quickly. People were so much harder. On the other hand, people were worth so much more. Especially eccentric wounded geniuses with dazzling blue eyes.

Wilson grabbed a towel to help, and 10 minutes later, the kitchen was spotless. Cuddy felt guilty suddenly for taking the time and hoped House wasn't worrying that they were talking about him behind his back.

He wasn't. He was, in fact, sound asleep and snoring lightly on the couch. She smiled.

"Think we should wake him up?" Wilson whispered. "His leg doesn't need another night out here."

"No, let's let him sleep for the moment. He won't sleep too long, anyway." She walked over and brushed his forehead gently, then moved to the other side of the room, sitting down. Wilson dropped into the recliner next to her. "Fever's almost gone," she said in a low tone.

"Good. So how did the great conversation go?"

"It's a lot to think about," she replied, quoting House.

"But he wasn't running away full speed? That's progress, right there."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I really didn't mean to spring that on him at the moment. I was going to let him heal up first."

"And then find another excuse, and then another." She glared at him. "Seriously, you are two of a kind. I think this would be a great time to take your relationship on. It might give him something to think about instead of his crappy childhood or his injuries. He's going to have some recuperation time, you know. Give him something positive to work through along with everything else while he's stuck at home."

Cuddy looked at House, seeing again how battered he looked, how even in sleep, his right hand rested almost protectively on his leg. Her thoughts returned to his immediate injuries. "Hopefully the ibuprofen will help some with the inflammation. And keeping up the diazepam for the moment, of course. Maybe I'd better go get the heating pad and put that back on while he's sleeping."

Wilson stood and stretched, feeling stiff and battered himself by the last few days. "I was thinking. One thing I noticed when he was taking a bath is that the leg is kind of swollen at the moment."

"Trauma reaction," Cuddy replied. "We've checked his peripheral pulses several times. Although I must admit, the anticoagulation effect of NSAIDs is a good precaution at the moment."

"That wasn't where I was going. You know, for an acute injury, ice has a lot of benefit. Alternating ice for the swelling and inflammation and heat for the spasms might do a better job of treating both. And either ice or heat would help with pain."

"Good idea." Cuddy stood up herself and headed into the kitchen, opening her freezer. "I've got two ice packs."

"But also three large bags of peas." Wilson extracted them and kneaded them between his hands for a minute. "Between those, we could pack the whole thigh pretty thoroughly for the length of the scar."

"That ought to work." Cuddy shut the freezer door, and they went back into the living room. She gently picked up House's right hand away from his leg, stroking it, smiling as in reflex his fingers curled around hers. Wilson began packing the bad leg. House shifted uneasily, retreating from the cold, and Cuddy's hand tightened around his. "It's okay, House, we're just putting some ice on your thigh to help with the swelling."

Wilson added the peas along the top of the length of his leg, and House gave a jump so sudden that he ripped his hand away from Cuddy's. At the same time, he swung sharply at Wilson, using his left, and the cast smacked into the oncologist straight on the jaw. Wilson staggered back, stunned, as House gave a yelp of pain himself. He was sitting up now, eyes open but unfocused, trying to retreat backwards into the couch cushions. His breathing was fast and uneven.

"House!" Cuddy quickly grabbed his hand again. "Easy. It's okay. It's just us." He whimpered and tried to pull away, although he did not lash violently out at Cuddy to get his hand free. "Easy. Wake up, House. It's okay." His breathing was still accelerating. "Wilson, go get a large injection of diazepam." The drug could have other uses besides relieving muscle spasms, after all.

Wilson had recovered his physical but not his mental balance and was standing in shock in the middle of the living room, thoughtfully fingering his jaw. He jumped at her words. "Um, right. Got it." He ran down the hall toward the bedroom.

House was still doing his best to tunnel frantically through the back of the couch away from her and away from the scattered ice packs. He was sweating heavily, and Cuddy shifted her grip on his right hand a bit to feel his pulse. It was easily over 130. "House, it's me. It's Cuddy. You're safe. Wake up." She batted the remaining ice packs off the couch onto the floor and then ran her hand through his hair, trying to sooth him. He wasn't fighting against her, but every inch of him was trying to retreat. His eyes were still wildly unfocused. Wilson returned at a gallop from the bedroom with a syringe and an alcohol swab, following procedure even in a crisis, and injected House as Cuddy did her best to keep their friend's arm still. They waited and watched anxiously. Within a short time, House's eyes were drifting shut again, although the drug sweeping through his veins clearly scared him even more, and he pushed out with both hands, fighting the oncoming helplessness. Finally, he was still.

Wilson let out his breath in a loud sigh. "I've never seen him have a panic attack before."

Cuddy grasped House by the shoulders, maneuvering him back to a prone position. "Help me get him straightened out." They worked together over their friend for a minute, repositioning him. Cuddy put the pillow back underneath his leg as Wilson bent to pick up one of the bags of peas.

"It was the ice," he said.

Cuddy nodded. "I've seen him use ice packs on injuries before, but he always was awake and knew it was coming. We shouldn't have surprised him like that." She ran her fingers through her hair. "You think his father packed him in ice?"

"I don't know what to think anymore." Wilson sat down in a chair, thoughtfully placing the peas against his own jaw. "I do think we'd better make an effort from now on to never catch him off guard with anything, no matter how simple it seems."

Cuddy nodded. "I'm sor. . ." She caught herself, even though he was unconscious at the moment. "I apologize, House. I'll try to be more aware from now on." She looked back at Wilson and noted the peas. "Are you okay?"

Wilson removed the peas and probed his jaw. "I think so. He caught me square, though." Cuddy walked over and tilted his head to the light, inspecting the injury and feeling for possible fractures.

"It seems to just be a bruise." She walked back over to House and picked up his left hand, remembering suddenly that yelp of pain right after he had connected with Wilson. "This cast is actually dented somewhat along the end." She carefully inspected all of it, but there were no cracks, no damage anywhere close to the break, and his fingers had good pulses. The arm didn't seem to be swelling more, either above or below the cast. "We'll ask him when he's awake how it feels, but I think he just jolted it."

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked. Cuddy had been trying to wake up a frantic House the whole time, after all, including the period when he had been out of the room.

She nodded, and then her eyes widened a bit in realization. "You know, Wilson, he never struck out at me in all that. Even when I had his hands. Not once. I couldn't wake him up, and I couldn't hold him still, but he wasn't fighting me."

"That makes one of us," Wilson retorted, putting the peas back on his jaw, but he was as pleased about that as Cuddy was. Maybe, even in a panic attack, House was starting to recognize that she was there for him.

After that, they didn't talk anymore. Cuddy picked up the remaining ice packs other than Wilson's bag of peas and returned them to the freezer. Then she got the heating pad from the bedroom and put it carefully across House's thigh. He never moved. She retreated to the recliner and sat there looking from the peas to House and back again. You miserable bastard, she thought, whatever you did to him, you didn't win. Do you hear me? You didn't win. And you never will. He's too good for you to keep him.


	22. Chapter 22

It was a few hours later when House shifted uncomfortably on the couch, reaching down slightly toward his leg, then across to his left hand. He was still asleep, but the lines of pain around his mouth were tightening up, and Wilson knew that the sedative effect of the large dose of diazepam was wearing off. He decided to go ahead and wake his friend up while House was only sleeping, before he got trapped in another dream and had to jolt himself out of it. Wilson moved over to sit on the coffee table and reached out to gently shake the other man's shoulder. "House? Come on, wake up. Time for more meds soon, and you really don't want to spend the night on the couch anyway."

House's eyes opened, though they took a minute to focus. They looked around Cuddy's living room, orienting himself, then over to Wilson, widening at the dark bruise forming along his friend's jaw. "What happened to you?"

Wilson sighed. "After you fell asleep earlier, I had the apparently not-so-bright idea that it might help the swelling and inflammation in your leg to use ice for a while."

House's eyes immediately left him, instead starting an in-depth analysis of the couch cushions. He knew that he'd had that dream, although obviously earlier in his nap, since he hadn't woken up out of it. "Are you okay?" he asked softly.

"I'm fine. It's just a bruise. How does your left hand feel? You hit me with the cast and seemed to hurt yourself doing it, although we couldn't find any new injuries."

House picked up the cast and looked at it, noting the dent across the end above where the fingers came out, then running his hand back along it. "It's banged up slightly but still seems intact."

"We saw that much ourselves. What about your wrist? You were reaching toward it when you were sleeping, too." House clearly didn't want to be pushed at the moment, but they did need an answer, even if just a physical one.

"The ache is a little sharper. I probably just jolted it." He inspected both ends of the cast. "It doesn't seem to be swelling more against the cast. It's not cutting off circulation."

"Okay." Wilson accepted it. "We need to keep an eye on it, though, and take you in for x-rays if it starts looking like a problem."

"Or get a hacksaw and just cut the whole thing off as a precaution." It was an attempt at a joke, but the effort at light tone was a miserable failure.

"In 5 to 6 weeks," Wilson said firmly. He wanted to ask House what the deal was with ice, but he didn't think he'd get an answer right now.

House suddenly looked up from the couch cushions and searched the room. "Where's Cuddy?"

"Back with Rachel. She woke up a few minutes ago." Wilson stood up. "You ready to move back to the bedroom for the night? You probably ought to change clothes and at least wash off a bit first, too. You'll feel better that way."

House realized suddenly how sticky he felt. He pushed down the blanket that was draped over him and picked up his shirt, which was still slightly damp in places, between his right fingers. "You had a panic attack, and we had to sedate you," Wilson informed him. "Sweat was just pouring off you by the end of it. We did try to wake you up first, but you were totally locked into it."

"I didn't hit her too, did I?"

"No," Wilson reassured him. "She's fine."

"I didn't mean to hit you." His voice was almost inaudible.

"I know. It's okay; I just got caught in the wrong place. Clearly, it wasn't us you were fighting. Anyway, it was my fault. I shouldn't have surprised you with it like that, should have woken you up and given you some warning." Wilson put a hand awkwardly on House's shoulder. House wasn't normally a toucher, but he looked like he needed it right now. "It's okay, House. And I've got all weekend to think up a story to match this bruise before I go back to work Monday."

House gave a weak smile. "They'll never believe a patient hit you, even if it's the truth. Rough night with a hooker, maybe?"

"They'll think you're rubbing off on me. Ready to get up?"

House pushed the blanket and the heating pad the rest of the way off and swung his leg over to a sitting position, taking a moment to feel along the canyon in his thigh. There was enough diazepam still in his system that it wasn't totally cramping, but it wasn't happy, either. Wilson handed him his cane and moved over to his left side, and House heaved himself to his feet, taking a minute to get his balance and make sure the leg wasn't going to fold up like a card table on him. Then they slowly hobbled to the bathroom, where Wilson made sure he was balanced at the moment, then tossed him a washcloth. "I'll bring you some more clean clothes," Wilson said, closing the door to give his friend a few moments of privacy.

Cuddy had obviously heard them and was standing in the door of the nursery now, Rachel in her arms. "I woke him up," Wilson told her, sotto voce. "It was wearing off. He would have woken up soon anyway; thought I'd spare him at least one dream."

"Is he okay?" Her concerned eyes met his.

"He's not talking about it. Ice is definitely the trigger, though. He didn't need a further explanation for the bruise once I mentioned ice."

She shivered herself and tightened her grip on the sleeping baby protectively. "I'll tuck her back in the crib while you get him comfortable, and then we'll put him out for the night. If he agrees, but I think he will. In a day or two, he's agreed to switch to zolpidem."

Wilson returned to the living room to get some clean clothes for House from the duffel bag he'd packed at his friend's apartment earlier. He walked back to the bathroom and tapped on the door. "House? It's me." There was a muffled grunt that might have been either an invitation to come in or to get lost, and Wilson chose the former and entered. House was sitting on the toilet lid. He had gotten his shirt off and sponged himself off a bit. Wilson knelt to remove his socks, then carefully checked the distal pulses again, comparing right leg to left. Both strong and bounding. "Pulses are good," he announced and looked up to find his friend's eyes locked on the bruise.

"Changed my mind," House stated. "I want to move back to my place tonight."

Cuddy had filled in the gaps for Wilson on that earlier debate, but he was surprised at the reversal. "I thought you'd decided to stay here tonight. It's late, but I guess we can all pack up if you want."

"No, _we_ won't. _I_ will go back to my place. Alone."

"That's ridiculous, House. You can't even walk by yourself reliably yet. We've been pushing it today keeping you here instead of in the hospital."

"Well, you can stop pushing it. I'm leaving." House's jaw was absolutely set.

"House, we aren't letting you go alone. Purely medically, it's the wrong decision, and anyway, we're your friends." Wilson put on the clean socks. "Can you slip out of those pants sitting down?" House automatically obeyed, even while getting more defiant.

"I'm an adult, and last time I checked, holding someone against his will was a crime."

Wilson removed the pants from around his ankles and put on the loose sleep pants, working them over the knees for House to prop himself up on the edge of the sink counter and lift up a few inches to finish pulling them up. "House, this is stupid. You are not getting rid of us tonight, and that's final. You need somebody with you." He picked up the clean shift, and House snatched it away from him one-handed. "Fine, do it yourself then." Wilson stepped back, leaned against the door, and crossed his arms. "Seriously, think about it for a minute. Medically, you know we're right."

Cuddy's steps were heard out in the hall just then, passing the bathroom door and heading for the living room in her unmistakable brisk stride. House's eyes tracked her almost as if he could see through the bathroom wall, then returned to Wilson's bruised jaw before quickly darting away - too late. The light dawned.

"You think you're going to hurt us, don't you? You're afraid to have us close to you."

"Take a look at yourself in the mirror," House said bitterly.

Wilson unpropped himself from the door, moving over to stand in front of his friend and lowering his voice. "Let me tell you something, House. You not only didn't hit Cuddy, you were actually trying not to. She even commented on it later. In a full-fledged panic attack, fighting off your father or whoever that one was, you never once struck out toward her, even though she was a lot closer to you the whole time and was physically trying to hold you still. You only hit me in the first reflex jump when I put the ice directly on your leg. You aren't going to hurt her, House. Not physically. But you'll hurt her a lot more deeply by pushing her away because you've convinced yourself it's for her own good." House studied his friend, trying to gauge the accuracy of the analysis.

"She was trying to hold me still? Actually had hold of me?"

Wilson nodded. "She was keeping you from falling off the couch. She was trying to wake you up and prevent you from hurting yourself. She pinned your arm down flat against the cushions while I gave you an IV injection. Trust me, she was definitely physically restraining you, and you never lifted a hand to her, even in a panic."

House fidgeted with the handle on his cane, his long, sensitive fingers nervously tapping the wood. "You aren't going to hurt her," Wilson concluded emphatically. "At least not physically. And if you'd let her in, you won't hurt her nearly as much as you're afraid of. It hurts her more to push her away."

Cuddy tapped on the door. "Boys? Are you having a convention in there? I've fixed us a bedtime snack."

"More food," House sighed. He finished putting on the clean shirt and pulled it down. "I'll stay here tonight. But you had better not be lying to me."

"I'm not," Wilson assured him. "You aren't going to hit her, no matter what kind of dream you get trapped in."

House relaxed somewhat and pulled himself to a standing position. Wilson stepped forward to help him and was surprised when House propped himself against the counter and reached out with his right hand, feeling along Wilson's jaw, carefully probing the injury. "It's okay, House," he said. He understood better than he ever had why it was so difficult for his friend to apologize - because he had himself grown up only with insincere ones, to the point that the words were not merely meaningless but made things worse. "We're all okay."

"Five minutes, and I'm sending in a posse," Cuddy called. They both laughed, the moment broken, and then Wilson opened the door and moved around to House's left side, adding support as they left the room.


	23. Chapter 23

Here's chapter 23. They will probably come a bit more slowly from here on, but I will keep them coming. I'm not sure if the Poltergeist story works chronologically, but pretend it does, because the story is true, and I can just see House fitting into that situation with no difficulty at all. Enjoy and review!

(H/C)

House hobbled into Cuddy's bedroom with Wilson's assistance but stopped just inside the door. Cuddy had just been setting a tray on the bed with a large bowl of popcorn and drinks, and she turned to find his eyes on her with his intent expression, analyzing and diagnosing, seeing far below the surface. She shivered - she couldn't help it; those incredible eyes always had that effect on her - and then grew a bit puzzled at his continued fixed regard. What was the differential he was running so fiercely at the moment? "House?" She had to repeat his name before he blinked and pulled back into himself enough to react to her. "What is it?"

Wilson sighed. "Cuddy, would you tell him that he didn't hurt you?"

"What? Oh . . ." Understanding dawned as she looked at Wilson's bruised jaw. "No, House. You didn't. I swear, you were actually trying to be careful, even while you were freaked out and trapped in some memory and we couldn't wake you up. You never struck at me. You weren't even scaring me, not for myself, anyway."

House relaxed slightly at her confirmation, but he still was far from casual. He limped over to the bed and sat down on it, rubbing his thigh for a moment almost involuntarily before he lifted the leg and pivoted to sit on her bed propped up against the headboard, being careful of the tray.

"You want some morphine now to take the edge off?" Cuddy asked. "I thought we'd give you enough to sleep in a little while. I need to get some more vitals, too, and . . ."

"Stop it," House said, his tone far more quiet than his usual sarcastic demands. "Please, can we just pretend for a few minutes that this is only a normal evening with friends? Nobody got hurt, and nobody got . . " His mouth slammed shut like a closing gate on the end of that sentence, cutting it off.

Cuddy nearly tripped over her good intentions in retreat. If he wanted space, they would try to give him space. "Sure. So, you do like buttered popcorn, don't you? I haven't actually seen you eat it much, just throw it at people." House picked up a kernel out of the bowl and chucked it at Wilson, trying to take the welcome change of subject she offered, and unfortunately hit his friend smack on the bruised jaw as Wilson turned his head to look from Cuddy to House. It didn't hurt, but it startled him. House flinched more than Wilson did, and Cuddy quickly tried to cover the awkwardness, bending to chase the runaway kernel and pick it up off the carpet. "Nope. Couple of ground rules. You do NOT throw buttered popcorn in my bedroom."

"Better make some plain, then," Wilson quipped, trying himself to make it seem normal.

"No food fights!" Cuddy said firmly.

House gave a weak smile and ate a bite. "Way too much for me here," he commented, and Cuddy and Wilson sat down carefully, trying not to jolt his leg, and began to munch.

Wilson fished desperately for a non-loaded subject and found one. "Remember that movie, House? That one where . . . "

"Poltergeist." House rolled his eyes. "Have you seen it, Cuddy?"

She nodded. "Not as bad as Psycho, but it sure startled me when the girl put her hand up to the television, and that ghost hand jumped back out at her."

"Exactly." Wilson was getting into stride. "So House and I were in the theater watching it, and this kid was sitting in the seat next to me. When the hand jumped out, he gave a shriek and went straight up a few inches off his seat, and he turned over his jumbo drink straight into my lap. I'm sitting there with ice and sticky soda all over my pants, and House, of course, thought it was hilarious. The kid was falling over himself apologizing and when I finally told him to just forget about it already, he moved down a couple of rows and over to get away from the embarrassment. House was making jokes about me leaving home without my Depends, but for the rest of the movie, he threw his popcorn at that kid. Piece by piece, spaced out. The kid would just start to get back involved in the movie again when zing, there came another one. House even got them to ricochet off the wall next to him, so they were coming from a few different directions. The kid would look back in the dark, and House was absolutely staring at the screen ignoring him. I was trying not to die laughing. The kid would move, and soon as he'd start to relax, here came the popcorn again. Watching that performance was better than the movie."

Cuddy laughed, picturing the scene. How absolutely House - mocking his friend's embarrassing moment, and yet also exacting revenge on his friend's behalf.

House smiled himself, much less forced that time. "I always knew that practicing ricocheting popcorn kernels would come in handy." He picked up one and aimed at the wall, then stopped with an exaggerated look of martyrdom under Cuddy's evil eye and ate it instead. "Oh, don't tell me you never in your life got in a food fight." She eyed him. "You need to live a little."

"I have dumped my own drink on myself in a movie, though. I even forget the name of it, some date I was on as a teenager. My date was a worse horror than the movie. I jumped at a scary point and turned the whole thing over."

House held up a hand, stopping her. "And let me guess, you calmly got up, excused yourself, and went to the bathroom to towel off and use the hand dryer on your skirt." He laughed at her look of astonishment. "You are SO predictable at times, Cuddles. For a million dollars, you probably couldn't sit through the rest of a movie after dumping a drink on yourself." The affectionate nickname had slipped out before he could stop it.

The conversation picked up from there with more funny movie stories that actually did distract all of them from the current issues, and before they knew it, the bowl was empty. Wilson stood, stretching, and picked up the tray with the empty bowl and glasses. "I think I'll take a shower. After that, I'll be on the couch if you need me."

"I think one babysitter is probably enough, Wilson. Go home and sleep in your bed; your back is bothering you." Now that Cuddy looked at the oncologist more closely, House was right. He was a bit stiff through the lumbar region.

Wilson hesitated, torn between the desire to give them privacy and the urge to be around if needed. "Go ahead and take that set of vitals, why don't you?"

"I'm FINE," House insisted. "Getting better all the time."

"Somehow, that argument would be more convincing if you could walk. Also . . ." He trailed off there, not sure how to continue it without pushing House into things he didn't want to talk about, but sedating his friend earlier had definitely taken two of them. Not that House had been fighting Cuddy, but he had been trying to escape, and giving an IV injection to a moving target had been difficult. If anything happened during the night . . .

House unfortunately filled in the end of the sentence anyway. The lighthearted mood from the stories burned off like fog, leaving only the glare of reality. "Maybe it would be a good idea," he said softly, suddenly afraid again of what he might do.

Cuddy firmly took control, the administrator smoothly stepping into the awkward silence. "Okay, YOU are going to go to your apartment, take a hot shower and something for your back, and get a good night's sleep in bed. Keep your cell phone with you, but I think we'll be okay. If I need you, I will call, and you can take tomorrow night at his place. And YOU are going to get a sound night's sleep, even if with some pharmacological assistance, and nothing is going to happen. But even if it did, you are NOT going to hurt me."

Wilson opened his mouth and then shut it. House said nothing. Finally, the oncologist nodded and said, "I'll keep my cell phone on." He turned and left the room, still taking the tray with him, and a few minutes later, they heard him call, "Good night," followed by the front door clicking shut.

Cuddy walked around the bed to House's side and took a set of vitals. "Your fever is down to 99.5. Blood pressure and pulse are up a little, though."

"I'm okay," House said. His whole body was tense.

Cuddy smiled at him. "House, believe me. You are NOT going to hurt me physically. You aren't capable of it." She stood up. "I'm going to go change and get ready for bed, and when you're ready, I'll give you enough morphine to last through the night. Do you need anything else?"

He shook his head. "I'm okay," he repeated. She went into her bathroom, and he could hear the sink running and her brushing her teeth. After a few minutes, she emerged in her pajamas. She expected the leer from him but was disappointed how half-hearted it was. His mind was still back in the land of his nightmares.

Cuddy walked over and picked up the morphine bottle and a syringe. "We don't have to talk, House. Just remember, like I said earlier, I wasn't frightened, and you were being careful. And that was in pure panic. You aren't going to hurt me." Looking at his bruised and stitched face and casted wrist, she only wished he could say the same about her.

"Can we talk a little while though?"

Surprised, she put the syringe back down. "Of course." She walked around the bed and climbed in on the other side.

"Am I on your side? We can switch." He still wasn't looking at her, even with the lure of pajamas, but she was touched at how considerate he could be at times when he thought the world wasn't watching to catch him at it.

"No, actually, you aren't. I usually sleep on this side, and also, you're better off with your leg to the outside. I wouldn't want . . ." She broke off, stepping once more into the quicksand of guilt and sinking rapidly.

House scooted over awkwardly, just an inch or so closer, clearly not quite sure how to handle this. He wished that relationships were anything like cases. There, the answers were waiting to be found, and all you could kill by error was someone's life, not someone's feelings or hopes. "You aren't going to hurt me," he said, throwing her words back at her.

"But I did."

"I deserved it."

"No!" She scooted closer herself for emphasis. "House, you deserve a lot of things, but you didn't deserve that. Stop thinking that my stupid actions were somehow your fault."

"Then stop blaming yourself for them." He changed the subject so abruptly that she only realized later that he meant to shock her, meant to jolt her out of her own guilt. "Dad used to give me ice baths as discipline."

Cuddy jerked upright in pure rage. "That is NOT discipline, House."

"I know," he said softly. "But I don't know what is. That's why. . . that's why I was afraid of you getting a child." It was one of the first times she had ever heard him mention being afraid.

"Because you thought it distanced me more from you." She suddenly understood. "It wasn't just an issue of time and attention, then."

"No. It made you even more unobtainable."

She slid over all the way, pressing against his shoulder. "House, you should see yourself with children. Really. You're much better with them than you are with adults. You've always related to them well. And trust me, having a horrible example as a parent would not make you abusive yourself. You could never hurt a child."

He was still tense, but he didn't push her away, letting her lean into him. "I don't know how to do this."

"Trust me, I don't either. I felt so inadequate with her at first, so afraid that I was doing it wrong, that I'd mess up everything. House, the world is full of crappy parents and full of good ones, and their success isn't simply tied to how well their own did. It's tied to how much they themselves try. You aren't going to make the same mistakes your parents did. You will make little ones, just like anybody, but kids are forgiving, House. If you show somebody you care, they overlook little mistakes, because knowing you overall and having you in their lives is worth it."

He tilted his head, leaning it carefully against her own, aware of the stitches on that side. "I can't forgive him."

"You shouldn't have to. But you are not him. You won't be him. Not with me. Not with a child. You aren't going to hurt someone deliberately." She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him against her. He still wasn't relaxed, but he was less tense than he had been. "I do think that talking to someone might help you work through some things, though."

He tensed back up a bit. "A shrink? Yeah, that would work." Actually, he had considered trying it, had even considered trying it recently.

Cuddy obligingly backed off, having planted the seed. "Just think about it, okay? But with or without professional help, you are not doomed to failure."

He half smiled. "Remember your handyman who fell off the roof?" She winced. "I told you then that you saw how things are and how they could be but didn't see the huge gap between."

"But sometimes gaps look bigger than they are, too. And you can build a bridge, even if its over something like Chesapeake Bay." He shifted. "I was thinking, I'd like to hold a Simchat Bat for Rachel. I'd appreciate it if you'd come."

"The Jewish naming ceremony. Not quite my cup of tea."

"Still, you are important to me. I'd like to have you there." She had been dreading asking him, dreading his reaction, dreading exposing herself to his acerbic tongue, and she was surprised how easy and undistilled his agreement was.

"Okay." He shifted again, and she suddenly realized that not all of his discomfort was psychological.

"Is your leg bothering you more? Give me a number."

He sighed. "Don't take it as an excuse to wallow in self-loathing. I think I annoyed it by sitting outside for 3 hours in the cold even more than you did with the trip wire. And extra credit points to Wilson for trying to use ice and making me panic. So it was a team effort."

"Give me a number," she insisted.

"7." He hesitated. "And a half."

She gave his shoulders a squeeze and then peeled herself off him, immediately missing the warmth, and stood up. She rounded the bed and reached for his leg after waiting a second for permission. She could feel the muscles cramping up again, could almost hear the severed nerve endings screaming. "I think it's officially bedtime."

He rolled his eyes as she filled the syringe. "Believe me, this isn't how I pictured a night with you in your bed."

She smiled at him. "We'll have to substitute another one later then. When you're well enough to enjoy it." She leaned over and gave him a kiss, then found the vein on his arm. "Good night, House. Pleasant dreams."

Drifting away on a sea of morphine and on her scent and nearness, he thought that he actually might have some.


	24. Chapter 24

House woke up slowly, gradually climbing up through the layers toward consciousness, almost relishing the process. No dreams at the moment, and while there was some pain, his leg wouldn't really start its morning complaint until he moved. For the moment, he felt warm and almost relaxed.

Warm . . . he was suddenly aware of the hand on his left arm, curling around it just above the cast. Careful not to involve the leg and wake it up, he turned his head. Cuddy was asleep on her side facing him, bright morning sunlight washing her face, giving her dark hair almost a halo. She looked like an angel. So desirable, so out of reach. Or was she? Wilson's words from yesterday had been replaying extensively in his mind, but the habitual anticipation of failure was hard to suppress.

_You'll never amount to anything. We're your parents, so we have to put up with your shit, but you're going to find in life, Greg, that nobody else is going to want to bother with you. You just aren't worth it._

House's fists clenched automatically in resistance to his father's voice. Cuddy felt the tension fire through him and woke up instantly, her eyes immediately looking toward him, full of concern, and she was surprised to see that he was obviously totally awake. "House? Are you okay?"

He nodded, looking away. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You weren't having another dream?"

"No. I was already awake."

Then what had set him off, she wondered. She saw his hand going to his leg automatically, working at it. "Is your leg bothering you?"

It hadn't been too bad until he'd tensed up and reminded it of recent offenses, but that was a good excuse at the moment. "Some. I haven't had anything yet this morning." He turned carefully to reach for his Vicodin on the nightstand, and the bright sunlight suddenly made him realize something else. "Cuddy, I don't have a headache!" He looked straight into the morning glare, then around the room, eyes finally resting on her. The pure exhilaration of not having a headache was enough to kick off a wave of endorphins itself.

"Not at all?" She was delighted.

"Not at all. It's been slowly getting better, but this is the first time since I fell that I didn't have a headache at all." They smiled at each other, sharing the moment.

"What about the cut?" She reached out to trace the left side of his face gently. He still looked banged up, but the bruising was beginning to fade a bit.

"Not as sore as it was." He leaned into her hand, testing it. "Nope, definitely getting better." He pulled himself up to sit against the headboard and reached for the Vicodin, swallowing two dry. She winced.

"What about your arm? You did hit it yesterday."

On Wilson. Right. Guilt wrestled with the exhilaration, dimming it. "Just a low-level ache. I don't think I hurt myself as much as I hurt him."

She thought about saying something, stopped herself, and he caught her at it. "What? I assume you weren't going to just tell me again that I didn't mean to and would never hurt anybody, since you've said that a dozen times so far. So what did you just decide not to say?"

Cuddy debated whether it was the right time for this conversation. On the other hand, was there a right time for this conversation? How did you pick appropriate moments to talk about the unspeakable? "I was thinking last night, while I was up with Rachel at one point. Maybe it would be a good idea for you to tell us what to avoid with you."

"Clinic duty?" He dodged frantically back into light banter, and she rewarded his effort with a smile.

"Nice try. Seriously, though, after seeing your reaction to that ice, I think it would help us to know what other triggers there are. What things remind you. Just so we can try to avoid them."

He sighed, hand automatically working on his leg, digging a little deeper into the ache as if he could make a difference. Digging never made the pain go away, though. He'd rather leave things unspoken. On the other hand, he had hurt Wilson, however unintentionally. For safety's sake, maybe she had a point. He would never forgive himself if he truly injured one of his friends.

"I'm not asking for details, House," Cuddy emphasized. "You don't have to explain the reasons. I'm just asking for the triggers that remind you."

"Ice is a big one, but you discovered that," he said softly. His eyes had left hers and were staring at his toes under the blanket. She could tell this was hard for him.

"I guess it's also safe to assume tripping you? Making you fall?" He nodded without looking at her, but he felt the tidal surge of guilt, and his casted left hand reached out awkwardly for hers. She gripped it between both of her own. "What else?"

"Tying me up. Using any kind of restraints." Cuddy's wave of fury overrode and conquered the guilt. Her hurting him had at least been unintentional. That damned bastard . . .

House had paused, but she gave him time, just squeezing his fingers between hers. He continued after a minute. "Horse whips."

She nearly dropped his hand on that one. "Horse whips! House . . ."

"You said you wouldn't ask for details," he reminded. "Don't interrupt me, Cuddy. I don't know if I can do this again." She forced herself to settle back against the headboard, still holding his hand. "Uniforms. Any kind of rules about time or punctuality." She forced herself not to flinch, suddenly seeing a whole different side to his chronic disregard for being on time. House heard the thought and gave a sardonic half smile. "Right, that explains my fashionable lateness. When he pushed me down the stairs, it was because I'd been 5 minutes late getting home."

Breathe, Cuddy reminded herself. Keep breathing. She was literally holding her tongue between her teeth to keep herself from comment. "Matches. Camping," House continued after a pause. Camping? Don't ask him. Stay quiet, Cuddy, stay quiet. Her fingers had tightened around his. "And the smell of carpet glue," he concluded.

"You mean when . . ." She spoke before she could stop herself and then bit back the comment.

He looked back across at her and nodded. "I didn't know how to ask you to undo it without having to explain."

So he had just been a jerk instead. She should have known that his reaction was extreme, even for him. Even Wilson, though puzzled himself, had said to her, "He doesn't want this. He needs it." Of course, replacing the old carpet in his office would do nothing about the scent of carpet glue, would even add more. But it would, after a while anyway, let him pretend that the episode had not happened, while the new carpet would have been a constant reminder. A reminder of what? What on earth could his father have done to him associated with carpet glue? Don't ask, she reminded herself. You said you wouldn't ask.

When nothing further came, she lifted her eyes, which had been locked on his hand between hers, and looked at him. He was looking straight at her now, the blue eyes searching. He saw no pity, only enough rage that even his father probably would have taken a few steps back. "Is that it?" she asked, trying to keep her tone businesslike.

"That's all I can think of at the moment off the top of my head. Some of them I don't remember until I run into it."

Her clinical side immediately kicked in again. "You mean you have repressed memories of things that you don't realize until prompted later?"

Her words were far too much like a textbook definition, and he immediately dodged away, breaking eye contact. "I just try not to think about them. Much more fun to spend time admiring the twins." His eyes went to them automatically, but the leer in them and in his voice was distracted.

Cuddy was writing frantically on a mental whiteboard. Nightmares, panic attacks, flashbacks, relationship problems, trust issues, suicidal nonchalance at times if not actual suicidal ideation, repressed memories, incomplete recall of some details of the trauma until triggered . . . dear God, this was absolutely textbook.

And she had seen none of it. Absolutely none of it. In 20 years. "House, I really think you need to talk to somebody."

He withdrew physically as well as mentally, pulling his hand out from between hers and turning slowly to sit on the side of the bed. "Going to force me to go to therapy?" he asked coldly.

"No," she said. "I'm not going to force you to do anything. But I wish you'd consider it. You deserve to be happy." His shoulders twitched at that, not quite a shrug, not quite a deflection, but a clear request for space. She obligingly dropped it for the moment, although her own resolve was firmer than before. She would try to find a way to help him deal with this.

House grabbed his cane and heaved himself up to a standing position before she had realized what he was about to do. She quickly got up and rushed around the bed, reaching out for him as he took a tentative step, testing his right leg, and then caught himself before it totally folded up on him. He shrugged her supporting hands away. "I'm okay. Just give me a minute."

"House, your leg nearly gave out on you."

"This is NORMAL," he snapped. "Happens almost every morning. It just takes it a while to hold up when I've been lying down for several hours, even when it isn't hurt. Now give me a minute." She dropped her hands, staying close but letting him work it out. This was normal? She watched how he held his balance between the cane and the headboard of the bed, how he tested the leg ounce by ounce, pushing it and then giving it a little more time. It did look like a quite familiar ritual. Her heart broke all over for him.

House took a wobbly step, then hesitated. Having worked through normal, he was now down to determining how far from normal things were. "Wouldn't mind a little help, just in case," he admitted, eyes down. Cuddy immediately stepped over to him, letting him take all the weight he wanted on the cane, just helping him balance. He seemed to be doing more on his own than he had been last night with Wilson, but it still wasn't usual. They headed to the bathroom, and just as they entered it, Rachel woke up.

Cuddy sighed. "Good as an alarm clock," she asked. She watched as he got a firm hold on the cabinet, and she forced herself not to ask if he was okay. "I'll go get her up," she said, letting go and stepping back when she was sure he was stable.

As she turned, she felt his hand on her hip and then slipping south for a quick squeeze, and she grinned over her shoulder at him, relieved at the return to more usual House. "I'd better go get Rachel, and then we'll have breakfast. What do you want?"

"Wilson will be here to cook. I'm amazed he let us sleep in this long."

"He'll be sleeping in himself," Cuddy insisted. He had looked beat last night.

House shook his head. "Bet you another day of clinic duty he's here and cooking before you can start breakfast."

"You're on." They shook on it. Rachel was increasing in volume, and Cuddy turned to hurry to the nursery.

As she picked up Rachel out of the crib, she heard the knock on the front door, and then it opened. "Cuddy? House? Good morning!"

Another day off clinic duty. Seeing him shake off the dark mood of a few minutes ago somewhat was more than worth it.


	25. Chapter 25

Here's chapter 25. Thanks for all the great reviews. Somebody made the excellent point that I might consider putting an abuse content warning on this story, which I have done. It will only be physical, not sexual, and it will never get into what I would call graphic descriptions (although that definition varies person to person), because I also like to leave some details to the readers' imaginations in many other areas besides sex scenes. But it will be mentioned, and if you have any kind of imagination at all, you will be horrified on poor House's behalf. And yes, I will explain carpet glue, and you will probably wish that I hadn't and be further horrified. So be prepared for mentions of abuse through the rest of this one and also the sequel, which is at the moment building itself under the working title of "Desperado." Thanks again. Enjoy the rest of Pranks. It has several chapters left, but we're certainly well over halfway, I'd say. Hard to judge length until I actually write it down from mental version into paper/Word. Basically, Pranks covers his injury time out until he returns to work, ending with a nice world of possibility but not tied up neatness with everything solved, and Desperado will pick up from there and cover his continuing progress in both dealing with his abuse issues and with the wanting a relationship but afraid of failure with Cuddy.

(H/C)

Wilson opened the door to House's apartment and then extracted the key and stepped back, picking up the duffel bag from the entryway and letting his friend precede him. House slowly entered. After another extended hot soak today and keeping up the high-dose anti-inflammatories, he was walking on his own, although slowly and limping much more heavily than usual, and Wilson stayed close just in case.

House stopped just inside the door and looked around. It seemed a lifetime since he had been here. What was it? Five days ago, he concluded. He had left on Wednesday morning to go to work, and it was now Sunday night. He looked around almost as if it were the house of a stranger. The books. The TV and stereo equipment. The guitars. The piano. He turned to go to it, caressing the dark wood with the fingers that protruded from his cast. It alone seemed familiar and welcoming, but he was suddenly freshly aware of the stiffness and limitation imposed on his left hand. No, the piano was as it had been. He was the one returning wounded, limited, off balance, and unsure. Rather than feeling that skeletons had been let out of his closet, he felt like his two best friends had entered the closet and were conducting a differential on them. Part of him still wished to kick them out, slam the door, and pretend it never had happened. Couldn't things just go back to normal?

He turned, and only the enforced slowness of his leg kept him from banging into Wilson on his pivot. His friend had come up behind him unnoticed while House was lost in reverie. House jumped slightly at the near miss, and Wilson reached out to steady him as the leg protested. "You okay?"

"Fine," he replied tersely. "I just didn't hear you. Figured you were in the kitchen; you haven't cooked anything for at least two hours. You don't want to go into withdrawal, you know."

Wilson gave a feeble grin. "Right. I'll go start dinner; Cuddy should be here from the hospital in another half hour or so. Are you hungry?"

House dodged the question. "Think I'll go lie down for a while." He hobbled slowly toward the hall, then stopped. "And Wilson. . ." He turned and found his friend, as expected, about 2 feet behind him, not diverting to the kitchen yet. "Wake me up to eat when it's ready." The unspoken text was almost written in the air between them. He was giving in to his still healing body at the moment, but he didn't want to have time to pass the initial sound sleep of exhaustion and enter another nightmare.

"Sure," Wilson replied lightly. He started to follow House down the hall, then stopped at the impatient hunch of a shoulder.

"Go cook," House said without turning around this time. "If I fall, I'll call you. You'll probably hear it anyway."

Wilson spread his hands in a gesture of exasperated surrender that House couldn't see and turned away. House limped slowly on down the hall, sticking close to the wall just in case, and entered the bedroom, settling down into the bed with a sigh. At least the bed felt familiar. He propped up his leg and closed his eyes, trying to blank out his mind. Too much had happened in the last few days. Too much had happened in his lifetime. It was his gift and his curse, having a mind that ran only at one speed, full gallop, but right now, he wanted to stop the whole world and get off. For just a while, he needed to stop thinking. All of the unsolved issues, past and present, would still be there when he woke up. Slowly, he drifted off.

In the kitchen, Wilson pulled out vegetables and started dicing with quick, angry slices. The more he thought, the more furious at himself he became. House had been especially distant and withdrawn today at Cuddy's, and both of them had given their friend space, filling in the time with a movie and with Rachel. There hadn't been much opportunity for private discussion, but Cuddy had whispered to Wilson at one point that House had had a very hard discussion with her earlier that she would tell him about as soon as she could. No doubt he was reacting to that, scrambling to avoid loaded topics. Unfortunately, Wilson had had plenty of time for thought himself last night and this morning, replaying the whole drive to the funeral. He had noticed House's efforts to talk about his father but had ignored and totally misread them. He had even JOKED about it, had remarked with biting sarcasm how House clearly had no issues to work through, and had immediately followed that statement up with his own declaration of independence. "I've moved on," he had said firmly, metaphorically and literally leaving his friend sitting on the curb while he returned to the car. How could he have possibly been that blind? And how could House have possibly been that trusting, to even try to bring it up to the man who had told him he never was a friend, the man who had asked him to risk his life, left him afterwards, and then had kidnapped him? With roles reversed, Wilson's entire commentary to his captor on that trip would have been, "Go to hell." But House had honestly tried to talk, had been glad to see him, had wanted to reach out. It was Wilson who had failed to listen, had failed to understand what in retrospect seemed written in large neon lights. Wilson slammed the knife down and yelped as he hit his finger instead of a carrot. Perfect.

Cuddy knocked on the door, and Wilson hurried to open it before House woke up. She stared at his towel-wrapped hand. "What happened?"

"I tried dicing fingers instead of vegetables. It didn't work."

She entered, putting down the baby carrier with a sleeping Rachel on the floor and the large PPTH pharmacy bag on the table. "Let me see." She carefully unwrapped it, inspecting the digit. "Don't think you need stitches. Just keep pressure on it a minute. I'll finish with the vegetables."

Wilson followed her, hovering just over her shoulder, unable to stop supervising the continuation of his meal as she finished the vegetables and added them to the pot of water. "How on earth could I have been so blind?"

Her shoulders slumped. "I don't know. Believe me, I've been asking myself that question. It's so clear." She moved over to unwrap his finger again and inspect the stopped bleeding, then retreated to the bathroom for antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids and returned. "I actually made a joke about it, that time his parents were coming and he was trying to dodge out of dinner with them. He told me that day, flat out told me, that he hated his father. Without one hint of sarcasm. And I brushed it off."

Wilson nodded mournfully. "You should have heard him on that trip to the funeral. I didn't even notice. He WAS trying to talk, extendedly, kept bringing his father and their problems up. But if he hadn't told me himself yesterday that he'd been trying to lead up to talking to me about the abuse, I still wouldn't have realized it. He did everything but spell it out, and I treated him like a jerk who'd never been a good son to them." Cuddy finished bandaging his finger, and he moved over to the stove possessively, reclaiming control over the meal in progress.

"Is he asleep?" she asked.

"Yes. The trip over here wore him out. He did ask me to wake him up when it was ready, though. So what was the tough conversation this morning?"

"I asked him to tell me the triggers that reminded him, so we could try to avoid them without another repeat of the ice."

"And he did?" Wilson felt a quick stab of jealousy. He had been House's best friend for so long that it hurt in a way that more of his friend's revelations so far had been to Cuddy. You had your chance, Wilson, he reminded himself. You even had your chance first. Can you blame him? Cuddy had merely set a trip wire on House and badly injured him. Wilson on the funeral trip had slammed the door, not once but several consecutive times, in his face as House honestly tried to approach the subject of his most guarded secret. Nope, Cuddy was definitely ahead in compassion points, although both of them were making a pretty poor showing.

Cuddy heard the thought. "Give him time. Remember, Wilson, he didn't voluntarily open up to me about this whole subject. I just tripped over it." She heard the word and winced as soon as she said it. "He was very reluctant to talk this morning, but I think what made him tell me was the fact that he did hit you last night. He was worried for us. Both of us." Wilson fingered his bruised jaw. "Even then, he didn't want to give me any details at all, just the triggers. I was having to bite my tongue to keep from asking him for more. If I'd pushed him then, he would have totally frozen up. I'm not surprised he's had his walls up all day since then. Even without details, it was brutal. With his memories added on his side, I can't imagine how hard it was for him to come up with that list."

Wilson sighed. "So what are the triggers?" He inspected the contents of the stove.

"We already had two. Making him fall and ice. The others he gave me are horse whips . . ."

Wilson dropped the stirring spoon into the pot. "HORSE WHIPS?" Rachel stirred in her carrier, and they both dropped their voices.

"Horse whips," Cuddy repeated. "He didn't even have any shock or emotion in his voice when he said it. Any time I reacted at all, he threatened to shut down. Sitting there and listening to this as an almost detached list was harder than anything I've ever had to take from him on the job."

Wilson got another spoon out of the drawer and fished out the dropped one from the pot. "Maybe it's better he told you first, after all. I probably would have lost it right there. You've got more self-control. Go on. What else?"

"Uniforms. Rules about being on time. Matches. Camping." She paused. "And the smell of carpet glue."

Wilson dropped his spoon into the pot again. "Damn. Some kind of friends we've been."

She nodded sadly. "He was way over the top about that carpet, wouldn't even enter his office, not even the main room. I've never seen him that upset about anything trivial before. I should have known it wasn't trivial."

"He didn't give you details?"

"No. What on earth do you do to someone with carpet glue?"

Wilson fished out his spoon again. "I can't imagine."

Cuddy shuddered. This was like seeing a shadow in a horror movie, not yet knowing what exactly it represents but knowing that it will be terrible. "And you know what he said then? I asked him if that was all after he'd been quiet for a minute. He said he couldn't think of any more at the moment, but he didn't always remember events until he ran into the trigger he had associated with them."

Wilson barely kept his spoon from going down for the third time. "Oh, damn. He SERIOUSLY needs help."

She nodded. "How on earth are we going to get him to accept it, though? He'll barely talk to us, and I'm sure he'd rather just go back to deflection and pretending if we hadn't found out his secret accidentally."

Rachel stirred again in the carrier, waking up, and Cuddy went over to her. "I'd better give her a bottle now while you're finishing cooking. I'll go check on him, too, make sure he isn't locked in another dream yet." She cuddled Rachel while heating the bottle, then headed back to House's bedroom. He was flat out and sound asleep, and she sat down carefully on the other side, feeding the baby and watching him. How could they help him deal with this? Her mind was running on a hamster wheel, getting nowhere.

Wilson came down the hall just as she finished burping Rachel. "Almost ready, and he's been asleep about an hour. We'd better go ahead and wake him up before . . ." He didn't bother finishing the sentence, just walked over to House's side of the bed as Cuddy stood up. "House?" He shook his friend's shoulder gently. "House? Time for food and meds."

House opened his eyes, and they both saw the gratitude, quickly shielded. He hadn't had to go through another dream. He slowly sat up and looked around, noticing Cuddy. "Hospital still there?"

"It was when I left, anyway," she parried. "Marco got a bit of a shock, though. It's all on the table, but I brought you a refill on Vicodin, oral antibiotics, oral diazepam, zolpidem, prescription-strength ibuprofen, omeprazole to go along with it as a precaution, and morphine and syringes, just in case."

House chuckled. "I would have liked to see his expression." He heaved himself up to his feet, testing the leg. Wilson's hands flexed, but he managed to keep himself from automatically reaching out to help. They had to know exactly how mobile House was before deciding whether one of them skipped work tomorrow.

The slow trek down the hall seemed to take forever, but House made it unassisted. The meal passed in the same shielded discussion they'd had all day, as if House had hit his quota of revelations first thing in the morning and had nothing left to give. Cuddy and Wilson tried to give him space, but they were both silently working frantically on strategies at the same time, to the point that House finally stood up with his plate only two-thirds finished. "I'll leave you to plotters to it. When you've worked out all the details of my upcoming life, send me a memo." He hobbled slowly to the piano and sat down on the bench, staring at his hands, the casted left one and the whole right.

Wilson picked up the plates and headed into the kitchen, and Cuddy helped him carry them in, then went back out to sit on the couch. "We won't do anything you don't agree to, House," she assured him again. "You won't be forced into anything. It's okay." Unwanted therapy would have no chance of succeeding anyway. The challenge would be getting him to want it.

He was playing odd pieces of melodies one-handed, using only his right, his left arm folded across his lap. Cuddy had always marveled at how much sensitivity and emotion he could put into the notes, even now when he was operating under a handicap. "How did you learn to play?" she asked. Surely that at least wasn't a negative memory for him. Music was the only place where he seemed truly whole.

He half-smiled, changing to another melody. "Mom had a friend who taught piano. She signed me up for lessons, and it was just there, like something I'd always wanted but never knew how to reach for until then." His eyes flickered to Cuddy, then back to his hand. The music changed again. Contemplative, sad, then with life entering it, ripples of possibilities, melding to almost-recognized tunes that hovered just beyond the ear.

Cuddy was mesmerized, following the notes, trying to decide what it almost reminded her of. "What song is that?"

He stopped instantly, as if catching himself. "I was making it up."

"Just then?" He nodded. "Well don't stop, House. It's beautiful. So reaching. Does it have a name?"

"Not yet," he replied. He resumed playing, right hand leading, left fingers twitching in his lap, and Cuddy realized that in his mind, he was hearing it whole.

"You'll have to play it for me when the cast comes off, so I can hear all of it like you can."

He nodded, more relaxed now with the music than he had felt all day. He worked through another phrase, thoughts flowing directly into his fingers. Here he could express himself. All the uncertainty, all the excitement, all the hesitance and changefulness. Music alone was a fortress in his soul, one that his father had never been able to breach. Cuddy sat there on the couch, staring into the fire, listening to the melody.

He had lied, but everybody lies. From the first moment, the piece had had a name. He would call it Cuddy's Serenade.


	26. Chapter 26

Happy Saturday, readers! My work ran out of work today, which is bad news for me, good news for you as I had time to write down a pretty long chapter. Want to send me some virtual bucks with reviews? Enjoy.

(H/C)

Wilson grabbed for his cell phone, silencing it quickly. "Cuddy?"

"Good morning." She was unable to hide the concern in her voice. "What's going on?"

"He's taking a hot bath right now. He agreed that he'd better not try that without someone here for the moment. I was going to cook breakfast when he got out. After you and Rachel left last night, we watched a bit of TiVO, but he kept falling asleep during it and got tired of denying it when I'd wake him up. He didn't need to sleep on the couch; his leg is bad enough anyway. He wasn't talking, but he seemed a little more like himself. Finally went to bed, and we had a debate over meds - I was actually pushing for morphine one more night, just based on his visible pain cues, and I think he was reluctant to take it from me after everything I'd said to him last week."

"Did he finally, though? Or did you just try the zolpidem?"

"Finally talked him into morphine, and we had a quiet night. I just let him sleep this morning until he woke up. He's moving a little better this morning, still not close to his baseline, but I'm sure he's going to insist I go to work."

She sighed. "Do you think he'll be safe alone?"

"Probably, if he's careful. I really think he's about to hit overload on the babysitters, as he calls it. I made sure to charge his cell phone last night."

"Maybe some time alone would help him process things. He's still getting used to the idea that we know. Tell him, though, that we will be checking in a few times, and if he doesn't pick up promptly, we'll be over there ASAP. And remind him that he MUST keep on a strict schedule with the antibiotics. And . . ."

A sharp bang was heard from down the hall, wood on wood, and Wilson cut off Cuddy's worried checklist. "Got to go, I think he's ready to get out. I'll be in after I feed us." He snapped the phone shut and hurried down the hall, pushing open the mostly closed bathroom door and nearly walking into House's cane, which he had just picked up for another bang. "Saved by the bell. Cuddy was just giving me a list of things to remind you."

House rolled his eyes. "You know, those two little letters MD appear after my name, just like hers. I even still use mine regularly."

"I'll be sure to pass that message along so she knows she has nothing at all to worry about. You ready to get out?"

House nodded and pushed himself up slowly out of the tub, his leverage hampered by the cast on his left arm as well as the leg. Wilson added balance and power when needed but tried to let his friend do as much of the work as he wanted. House was breathing a bit heavily by the time they finished. He picked up a towel.

"Remember, don't try that just yet when no one's here."

"Would you go cook breakfast already? I think I might be able to manage to get dressed on my own," House snapped. Wilson had been about to unwrap the plastic bag from around his cast, but he obligingly stepped back.

"Fine. Call me if you need me." He headed for the kitchen, deliberately leaving the bathroom door open and his ears on high. Yes, House definitely was ready for a break from the constant physical supervision. Wilson just hoped that his common sense would balance out his stubbornness today once he was on his own.

House hobbled slowly into the kitchen several minutes later to find Wilson cooking pancakes. "What are you going to tell everybody about the bruise?" House asked, and Wilson heard the genuine anxiety underlying his voice. There really was no way to explain that honestly without getting close to violating House's privacy, which had already been broken enough.

"I'll just say I hit it on something at home." House gave a soft exhale that might have passed as thanks, and Wilson nodded as if the words had been spoken. House sat down at the table as Wilson flipped the pancakes. "House, I'm really . . ." Seeing his friend tense up, Wilson caught himself before he said the word sorry. "Look, I know I've been a pretty lousy friend the last few months. I wish I'd listened to you. I was reacting to losing Amber. It wasn't about you. I mean it was about you, because I've got problems with losing people, like you said, but . . ."

"Okay, already. Cue the cheesy soundtrack. I get it," House interrupted.

Wilson grinned. "Did I tell you I threw a glass paperweight through my balcony door last week?"

House's head tilted, interest caught. "Really? Was that the day you didn't want to stay in the room for lunch so I wouldn't know something was wrong?"

"You got it. I was worried about you, and I lashed out. The thing is, your team all saw me do it."

House smiled. "Wish I'd seen that. It would have been fun to watch them try to explain it."

Wilson switched off the stove and started building pancake piles on two plates. "So are we okay?"

House's lighter tone evaporated. "We're okay." His eyes had gone distant again, though, and Wilson could tell that he was still wishing frantically that nobody besides him knew.

Nobody besides him. . . Wilson's anger suddenly found a new target as he recalled Blythe's tone when she called him to request his help getting House to the funeral. "You know how Greg can be, and they never really got along," she'd said, and Wilson had bought it hook, line, and sinker. Of course he'd help with her undutiful and obnoxious son. How was it possible for her to have lived in the same house for 18 years, to have seen injuries, and not to have known? Wilson speared a bite of pancake viciously.

"What is it?" House asked, blue eyes suddenly refocusing and intent.

Wilson sighed. "Where the hell was your mother when you were growing up?"

House tensed back up and immediately put the fork down. "She didn't know."

"How not? That's not possible. Not unless she was deaf and blind, not living with you for that many years."

"She believed what she wanted to, what my father told her. I think she might have suspected something hidden at times, but it was easier not to ask too many questions. Dad . . . didn't like questions. I don't think he ever hurt her, but he could make life easy or difficult for people. Most people got to choose." House pushed his plate away, and Wilson shook his head.

"Nope, you've got to eat more than that. I'll shut up and not ask anything else, but you need more of a meal with the ibuprofen dose you're on." House sighed, staring at the plate. "And don't tell me you don't like them. I know better. But I'm not leaving until you've finished that plate, and if I don't show up at work soon, Cuddy will decide something has happened and come check on us." House rolled his eyes and picked the fork back up, Wilson noting in sidelong glances that he actually physically seemed to have trouble eating at first, like he was choking down the bites. Great job, Wilson. You know eating is somewhat of an issue with him anyway. House settled down a bit the further they got from the topic, slowly starting to actually taste the pancakes again, and they finished the meal in silence. After his plate was empty, House got up and limped heavily into the living room, where he settled on the couch. After washing the dishes and tidying up the kitchen, Wilson came out.

"Here's your cell phone. I charged it up last night. Keep it with you and call us if you need anything. And ignoring calls might well get you a visit from 911. All of your meds are on the kitchen counter." He looked around, wondering if he'd forgotten anything, and managed to keep himself from asking if House was sure he'd be fine.

"Go on, Wilson. Cancer kids in a hurry to die and all. I'm going to catch up on General Hospital." House picked up the remote.

"Okay. Have a good day." Wilson gave him one last look as he went out the apartment door. House was stretched out on the couch, eyes pointedly on the TV screen. Wilson closed the door, and a minute later, the sound of his car starting up outside was heard.

Once the car had driven away, House snapped off the TV and leaned back on the couch, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Slowly, he began to sort again through the last few days.

(H/C)

Cuddy found herself pulled into the whirlpool of daily activities at the hospital, meetings, calls, paperwork hassles. Even without her star employee to deal with at the moment, there was plenty to keep her occupied, and while concern about House was a rippling current underneath her thoughts, she managed to keep fairly focused. A new referral came in for the Department of Diagnostic Medicine, and she and Foreman had an debate over whether the team was actually up to it. She finally, with reservations, let them accept the patient, but she added that to her list of things to keep close tabs on.

She didn't even stop for lunch, just having a sandwich at her desk, and when her phone rang just after 1:00, she picked it up without looking at caller ID, expecting merely another work-related call. "Hello, Lisa Cuddy."

"What are you wearing?"

She straightened up and dropped her pen. "House? What's wrong?"

He sighed. "Nothing. Just wondered what you were wearing."

"How's your leg? You didn't fall, did you?"

"No, I didn't fall. And the leg is still attached."

"What did you have for lunch?"

"I haven't had lunch yet."

"Why not? It's after 1:00, House. You're due for more meds, and please don't tell me you took 800 mg of ibuprofen on an empty stomach."

"Nope. I was watching TV, and I guess I fell asleep. Just woke up."

That explained the oddly ragged tone of his voice. He must have had one of his dreams and just jolted himself out of it. Okay, he wanted contact and distraction. She could handle that. "I'm wearing a blue silk top and a jacket and skirt."

"Are the twins having a good day?"

"You can tell see for yourself later. I'll bring you dinner tonight. Wilson is staying with Rachel."

"Just make sure you remember that not everybody eats as painfully healthy as you do."

"I was thinking pizza, actually. Meat lovers special for you, cheese for me."

"And bread sticks." His tone was relaxing a bit.

"You got it. Do you have something there for lunch?"

"Wilson left me microwaveable servings to last a few days." She heard the couch cushions creak and then his slight grunt as his feet hit the floor. "And don't worry, I'll take all my medicines like a good boy."

She smiled. "I've got to get to a meeting, but call me if you need me. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

"Okay. Bye, Cuddy."

"Bye, House." She was smiling more broadly as she hung up the phone.

(H/C)

Cuddy called him a bit later in the afternoon just to check up on him, with him informing her that she had interrupted Judge Judy. It was almost 6:00 when she tapped at the door and then immediately unlocked it, juggling a light bag with some clothes in one hand and a pizza box and bread sticks in the other. House was still peeling himself off the couch as she stepped through the door and closed it behind her. "Who gave you a key?" he asked.

"Wilson got his copied this afternoon." She set down the bag by the door and then came over to put the pizzas and bread sticks on the coffee table. "I didn't want you to have to get up." She saw the quick flare of hurt in his eyes before he looked away. "I was going to ask you tonight. He thought of it first and just had his copied; I didn't know until he gave it to me."

"I would have given you one," he said softly.

"I know. I should have mentioned it when I called you." She extracted it from the keyring and held it out to him. She could have kicked herself for using it without asking him first. He already felt the last few days like the world was getting access to his life without even consulting him. "Take it, House. It should have been your decision. I apologize."

He took the key and studied it intently for a few seconds, then put it down on the coffee table. "So, did you remember the bread sticks?"

"They're in the sack. Let me go get us something to drink." She went into the kitchen and returned with sodas for each of them. He probably didn't need to be mixing alcohol with the recent head injury quite yet - something he had apparently concluded himself, as there was an empty water glass on the counter along with an empty Coke can but no beer bottles or shot glasses from the day, neither here nor on the coffee table. Returning to the living room, she was delighted to see that he had already opened the sack and was munching a bread stick. She sat down on the floor next to the coffee table and handed him one of the sodas. "So how was your day?" Wilson had had a brief talk with her that afternoon in which they had agreed to never again bring up emotionally charged subjects while House was eating.

"Brock discovered that he's the father of one of the twins." He opened the nearest pizza box and discovered her cheese, pushing it toward her with a slight grimace and reaching for his own meat lover's special.

"Just one?"

"Yep."

"How is he doing by the way?"

"Gulping down his non gin with non tonic, and all neurological symptoms have vanished." He grinned at her. "Just think, if someone didn't care enough to kidnap actors when they're getting ill, the world might never have seen the custody battle that's about to erupt."

"What a loss. I would have been so much more upset last year during that inspection if I'd known that not only my hospital's accreditation but also the fate of the twins' paternity hung in the balance."

He chuckled, finished his first slice, and extracted a second. "Speaking of twins, they are looking quite perky today."

She had never admitted it, but she loved his suggestive remarks. At least they had always proved he was noticing her. She reached for a second slice of pizza herself. "By the way, a new case came in, and we had a full-scale showdown and diagnostic shootout in the lab this afternoon. Foreman versus Taub and Kutner. Foreman was suggesting lupus . . ."

House snorted. "It's NEVER lupus. For having worked with me the longest, he sure is dense at times."

"I told him once he was House Light. There's only one House Classic." He smiled absentmindedly but refused to be diverted from the diagnostic puzzle.

"What did Taub and Kutner think?"

"Vasculitis triggered by an injury."

"Hmmm. Worth testing. Kutner is good if naive, and Taub is improving. When he gets himself fully engaged in it, instead of just having this be enforced alternate plan, he's going to have good diagnostic instincts. Kutner needs more mileage, and Taub needs more commitment, but those two are both going to be better than Foreman in the end. What about 13? What did she think?"

Cuddy had been fascinated at his thumbnail sketch of his fellows, but her interest faded into concern at the end. "She wasn't participating much. I think you getting hurt really shook her up."

He sighed. "She gets in a Huntington's funk now and then. Not that the disease is affecting her that much yet, but she gets stuck thinking about it when something upsets her, especially someone she knows being hurt or ill. It happened during Amber's case, too. I had to come down on her pretty sharply then."

While dealing with Amber's case while dealing with his own severe injuries. Cuddy was impressed more than ever at how well he could juggle, figuratively as well as literally, and keep all balls under observation and spinning evenly. "Maybe the drug trials will make a difference for her with the disease. I hope so." She caught the quick expression that ran across his face. "What?"

"I think Foreman is screwing with the drug trials," House mumbled around a bite of bread stick.

"What?" Cuddy nearly dropped her own slice. "That's unethical."

"Throughout history, when ethics met love, it wasn't usually ethics that won." House set down his bread stick to pick up the soda, again annoyed that he only had one fully working hand to use with this. "I know he found out she was on the placebo. I know he was thinking about it."

Cuddy spent a great deal of energy in her job keeping tabs on House, but she could still be stunned at times the details he knew about everyone from his fellows to the nurses to the janitors. How could observation be so effortless for him? She was almost envious at times.

He finished his bread stick and then closed the pizza box. He'd had 3 pieces, 3 bread sticks. She considered it and decided that was good enough. She finished her own current slice and stacked the two boxes together. "Would you like me to bring you your meds as long as I'm in the kitchen?" she asked, scrambling up from the floor with an ease that left him envious himself.

"Thank you," he said, looking back at his leg and massaging it lightly. She returned a minute later with a whole handful of pills, antibiotics, omeprazole, and ibuprofen.

"I didn't see the Vicodin in there. Do you have it?" He nodded, pulling the bottle out of his pocket, extracting two, and then gulping down the entire handful at once. Cuddy cringed.

"You're going to choke someday doing that."

"You're here for the Heimlich maneuver if needed," he replied lightly. She brushed one hand across his forehead. "Fever's all gone," he said. "I did check it earlier after lunch."

"How's the leg?"

"Slowly working the kinks out."

She sat down in the chair, posture stiff, shoulders squared, and he straightened up a bit on the couch. "Uh oh. Whatever it is, I didn't do it, I swear. I haven't even been near the hospital today."

Her smile was absentminded. "I've got a proposal for you."

"Yes, I will have sex with you. Better give the leg a little more healing time, though, and I'll bet this cast would get in the way." Her expression didn't lighten at his banter, and he fell serious himself. "Okay, I'm listening."

"I will credit you with three hours off clinic duty," she started and paused, dangling the bait, making sure she had his full attention.

"In exchange for?"

"Every one hour that you spend talking to any licensed psychiatrist or therapist, either in PPTH or any other facility." He tensed up, and the eyes fell. "Note that I'm not specifying what you have to talk about, and I won't attempt to find out unless you volunteer information. All rules of confidentiality will apply. But it must be office encounters with a professional."

A stiff silence fell between them, and she left it alone, giving him time to consider the idea. "Why do people always think talking about things helps?" he said finally.

"Suppose you have a patient who has a deep abscess. Why should that be opened and drained? Why not just leave it hidden under the surface?"

"That's different. That's a medical condition." His eyes met hers again, and his tone was bitter. "Don't turn into Cameron on me, Cuddy. She always wanted to fix me."

"I don't want to fix you, House. This has nothing to do with . . . with whatever it is I think we might have together. I'm attracted to you, to all of you, not to brokenness, and no matter whether you agree or not, it won't change that attraction. But please, think about it, okay? I won't mention the offer again unless you do. But I wish you'd consider it. I do think it might help. You're willing to take such long shots to try to get some improvement for your leg - the ketamine, that CIPA patient, because the potential gain was worth the risk. Wouldn't you like to bury him, once and for all? Isn't that worth risking something?" He was staring at the floor again. She gave it a minute and then emphasized again, "It's your choice, House. Entirely your choice. I'm asking you, but I'm not telling you. No one is going to nail you down and make you do this."

He tensed up so quickly, almost convulsively, on that last sentence that he actually hurt his leg doing it, and his right hand automatically went to it as his eyes ran away from her, going clear to the other side of the room. He pulled back into the couch cushions, suddenly smaller, and his breathing was audibly faster, as if he'd been running. What the hell? That hadn't been a reaction to her suggestion; he'd already been reacting to that before. This was a new element entirely. She replayed her final words, looking for any clue. No one is going to nail you down. Oh, dear God. . .

"House?" She got out of her chair, going across to the couch. "Are you okay?" He didn't answer, and she reached for his arm, slowly enough that she hoped she wouldn't startle him, and ran her hand up and down his upper arm soothingly. His skin felt clammy beneath her touch. "Easy. It's okay." She sat down next to him on the edge of the couch, pulling his upper body over against hers while being careful not to trap him. He seemed to recognize her touch there and leaned into her, and she stroked his hair softly, letting his head fall against her shoulder. letting him hide his eyes. "It's okay, House. I'm here. And nobody else, just the two of us. It's okay." Slowly, she felt his uneven breathing level out, felt the pounding pulse in his neck slow. Even after she was sure he was firmly back in the present, he did not raise his head, did not look at her, still leaning into her and hiding his face. She waited him out, never stopping the soothing stroking of his hair.

Finally, he pulled away, eyes down, looking anywhere but her. "Thanks."

"Better now?"

He nodded. He sat straight up again, seeming embarrassed now, and she obligingly backed away. "I'm going to go get another soda. Do you want one?" He nodded without looking at her, and she stood and went into the kitchen, getting two more out of the refrigerator. She returned to the living room and handed him one, and after he took it, she retreated to her chair and sat down without a word.

It was nearly 5 minutes before he looked at her. "Aren't you going to ask what that was about?"

"No. If you want to tell me, I'd be glad to listen. But I'm not going to ask."

He relaxed a slight degree at her words. He drained half his soda in a few gulps, then stared at the red can in his right hand, twisting it between his nimble fingers. He was quiet for so long that she thought he'd decided against it, but when he finally spoke, his voice was flat, almost emotionless, like his list of triggers yesterday morning. Somehow, that made the horror more than shouting ever would have. "When I was 6, I was coming across the living room one day with a glass of red juice. I had a sore ankle from . . . from something else a few days before, and I stepped on it a bit wrong and flinched, dropped the glass, and broke it. Big red splash on the carpet. Dad seemed to take it well, said that carpet had needed replacing anyway. He said he'd do it himself the next day. He liked fixing anything himself. He sent Mom off to a friend's for the day, so the smell of the glue wouldn't bother her, but he kept me there, to teach me how to do it." He paused and drained the rest of his drink in one ragged gulp, the sound of his swallow louder than any of his words had been. "He put the new carpet down the next day. Made me watch. Then he made me lie down on the new carpet, and he pinned me down with a piece of the extra, all across my body, and nailed it to the floor tight on each side. He said he might come back to let me go or might not. I was there all day. I was having trouble breathing with that glue, but I couldn't move. He came back after 7 hours, and then he marched across me before he pulled the nails out." His quiet words trailed off there.

Cuddy's fingernails were digging into her own palms as she sat in her chair, and she could taste the blood where she had bitten her tongue to keep from reacting, afraid that saying anything would make him stop. Her heart shattered. How could any father, anyone at all, do that to a 6-year-old child? She sat there until she felt like her own limbs would hold her up, and then she stood, a bit shakily, and walked over to the couch. Without a word, she touched him again, and he turned to look at her, surprised by the pure fury in her eyes. There was no pity, only rage. "Thank you for telling me," she said.

He studied her for a moment, assessing, then said softly, "I think I'd like to go to bed now." He slowly dragged his leg over.

"Do you want morphine tonight or zolpidem?" The effort to make her tone even and casual was wrenching, but she made it gladly. She couldn't imagine what telling that had been like for him.

"Let's try the zolpidem. 2 more Vicodin. And some diazepam, too," he said, massaging his damaged thigh. She retreated to the kitchen, then returned with the pills, other than the Vicodin, which he already had. He gulped them down, then levered himself up slowly from the couch as she stood near enough to catch him but did not help. He limped heavily down the hall, then diverted into the bathroom. She went on into his bedroom, straightening the covers out and turning them down. He came on in after a moment, wearing his loose sleep pants and T shirt now, and sat down heavily on the bed.

"I'll be on the couch if you need anything," she said and started to turn away.

"Cuddy?" She turned back. "Could you sleep in here? If the zolpidem doesn't do enough . . ." The words trailed off.

"Of course. Let me get changed, and I'll be right back." She went through the bathroom herself, then returned to the bedroom and climbed in next to him. His eyes already looked a bit droopy between the zolpidem and the diazepam. She had given him a sizable dose on the diazepam, but he had looked at the pills himself, so he knew what he was taking. "Good night, House. I'll be right here if you need me."

He reached across with his right hand for hers, an odd gesture from him, and she started to take his hand and then realized what he was doing. She felt the hard metal object pressed from his fingers into her own as his eyes closed.

He had given her back the key.


	27. Chapter 27

Wilson was doing paperwork at his desk the next morning when Cuddy tapped on the door and then entered. "Everything go okay last night?" he asked, then looked at her more closely. "Are you okay? You look sick."

"I feel sick," she replied. She dropped onto the couch. "Did Rachel do okay?"

Wilson immediately smiled. "She's adorable. We got along great, and she was happily getting a bath from the nanny when I left." He turned serious again. "What happened?"

"I gave him our bright idea for how to get him into therapy."

"Let me guess, he denied that he needed it, denied that it would help anyway, and accused you of being Cameron."

"Pretty close. The seed is planted, though. We'll let him think about it a while. But before we could really get onto another subject after that, I happened to use a phrase that knocked him straight into a flashback, and he was totally down the rabbit hole for a few minutes." She stopped there for a minute and took a gulp from the coffee cup in her hand. She still looked like she was fighting the urge to throw up, so ruffled and unCuddylike that Wilson was worried about her at the moment as well as House.

"Something tells me I'll regret this, but what was the phrase?"

She looked up with fury wrestling revulsion in her eyes. "No one is going to nail you down and make you do this."

Wilson came straight up out of his chair, nearly knocking it over as he stood, and started pacing quick, agitated circles in the small room. "You don't mean his father literally . . ."

Cuddy nodded. "House filled me in several minutes later, but I think he only told me because I refused to ask him for details."

Wilson shook his head, suddenly feeling nauseous himself. "That sonofabitch. If he weren't dead, I'd kill him." He reached the wall and turned for another lap. Cuddy was still sitting on the couch staring at the coffee cup in her hands, the full weight of knowledge across her slumped shoulders. "What did he tell you, Cuddy?" Wilson wasn't sure he wanted to hear details, but a burden shared was one cut in half, and she needed a friend at the moment herself.

"He said when he was 6, he dropped a glass of juice on the floor. He had a sore ankle - he glossed over that part, but it was probably something else that bastard had done to him - and he put it down a bit wrong, flinched, and dropped the glass. The juice stained the carpet, and his father replaced the carpet in the room the next day." She looked up from her coffee cup then, and the stark horror in her eyes stopped Wilson in his tracks. "When the new carpet was down, his father nailed him to the floor with the extra pieces and left him there for 7 hours, then marched across him before he set him free."

Wilson stared at her in disbelief. "Carpet glue," he said finally.

"No wonder he couldn't even stand to go in his office. Everything he'd been through those few months - getting shot, the ketamine failing, us lying to him - and then to get blindsided with me changing the carpet." She shook her head, recalling her words about the key last night. "It should have been his decision, even if the only emotional stressor had been being shot. Why did I go ahead on that without talking to him?"

Wilson's legs suddenly felt weak, and he collapsed into a heap beside her on the couch. "Where was his mother? That's what I've kept coming back to since yesterday morning. How could she not notice? Part of me would like to call her up and rip her apart. You should have heard her on the phone asking me to help her. And then how she stood there at that funeral and thanked me for bringing him and insisted that he do the eulogy." He dropped his head into his hands. "When he was dodging dinner with them that time, I actually told him to call Mommy and Daddy like a grown up, just treated him like an ungrateful brat and refused to pull their invitation. Why does he trust us at all?"

"I don't know." Cuddy stared into her coffee cup again. They sat there for a few minutes in mutual silent recrimination, and finally Cuddy shook herself into action. "Anyway, the one thing that made him explain that to me was letting it be his choice. That's what we'll have to do with the therapy, too. I've put the idea out there, but he has to decide. It wouldn't work otherwise, anyway."

Wilson's fingers were playing agitated patterns on his perfectly-creased slacks, wrinkling them. "What kind of night was it last night?"

"He tried the zolpidem, and it worked pretty well. He was very quiet this morning. Physically, he's slowly getting better. Your turn tonight."

Wilson nodded. "I was already planning what to cook. Sounds like you need a quiet night yourself after hearing that last night."

"We'll trade off for a while, long as he'll let us." She looked directly at him. "But he can't get a break from it himself. I've stirred all the memories up again for him."

"Maybe it was a good thing. I mean, now we know, and we can try to help. Maybe your prank will turn out to be a blessing in disguise."

"I hope so, Wilson. I hope so." It was a guilt-edged prayer.

(H/C)

House had arrived at that annoying stage of convalescence when you really start wanting to do more but are unable to do it yet. He tried pacing for a while, hoping the physical activity would be an outlet for the mental, but his leg wasn't up to it yet. He watched TV, played video games, worked some more on Cuddy's Serenade. No matter what he tried, he tired easily on it, and he was left stuck thinking, which is what he'd been trying to avoid in the first place. Well, that and falling asleep. Wilson called around noon to remind him that it was lunch time, and they shared a pleasant and routine exchange of insults and banter, but then after having lunch, he was back to running mental marathons.

Maddening, that fixing lunch for himself, that even walking to the bathroom and back was enough to tire him out. He stretched out on the couch with the heating pad on his leg, but he stubbornly resisted sleep. A nap would only be an engraved invitation back into reliving his childhood even more vividly. There were the drugs, of course, but drugging himself into sleep during the day was somehow so much more of an admission than doing so at night. Besides, no doubt Cuddy or Wilson would call and get worried. He didn't want his friends worried.

What he really wanted was to return to work, to get the distraction of the puzzles, but then his mind effortlessly called up images of him dropping off to sleep in his office chair and startling the whole team with a nightmare, or him suddenly being pulled into a flashback in the middle of differential. His nerves were too raw at the moment, everything too present. He wasn't sure he could keep up the charade for eight hours yet in front of them.

Damn. He hit his right hand against his left, almost welcoming the slight pain as his broken wrist reacted. It would get better, though. His memories were just agitated at the moment because of being tripped and hurt, followed by the shock of his friends' discoveries. Things would retreat back to a nice, usual baseline on their own given time. He could deal with baseline, had dealt with it for decades. But how was he supposed to keep from going crazy until then? Besides, he knew good and well that Cuddy, despite her stated intentions, and especially Wilson would be unable to leave it alone. He wished desperately for a time machine, to go back a week ago, stumble lightly over the wire and laugh it off, and continue with nobody the wiser.

Wishing for a time machine. His specialty was working out and solving problems, finding answers no one else could, and the best solution he could come up with was wishing for a time machine to erase the last week. Yeah, took a genius to come up with that idea.

At that point, in spite of his efforts, his rebellious body insisted on dragging him back down into sleep. He wasn't sure how much later it was - not too much later, fortunately - when a low thumping dragged him back toward the surface. One eye opened and looked around, annoyed, for the source of the disturbance.

The thumps came again, and he realized suddenly that someone was knocking on his door, albeit only at half volume, as if afraid to disturb him. Great, probably the Jehovah's Witnesses.

On the other hand, a good round with the Jehovah's Witnesses might be a nice distraction at the moment and burn off some mental steam. House turned off the heating pad and slowly hauled himself up to his feet. The knocking had stopped before he made it to the door, and when he opened it, he saw the retreating backs of half of his team just heading out the exterior door. "Wait a minute! Cripple here, remember? You've got to give me a little time."

Kutner and Taub jumped at his voice and then turned around. "We were knocking for 5 minutes," Kutner stated. "We figured you were asleep."

"I was," House stated, sounding so happy about the past tense that the other two shared a puzzled look. "So, did you have a reason for waking me up, or did you just happen to be in the neighborhood - together, in the middle of the work day. Did Cuddy send you by to check on me?"

"No," Kutner replied emphatically. "She'd kill us. We're supposed to be leaving you alone."

"And yet here you are. So?" House leaned against the doorframe, his leg starting to object to standing, and the other two noticed.

"Can we . . come in for a minute?" Taub asked. House unpropped himself from the doorway and limped back over to the couch, leaving the door open for them. The two entered and sat down tentatively on the edge of the chairs.

"Relax, Cuddy isn't here at the moment to catch you. Although I'm sure one of my two babysitters will be around after work, so you'd better get to the point some time in the next hour or two."

"You're looking better," Kutner noted. "How are you feeling?"

"Great. You came clear over here to ask me that?"

"We told everybody we were going to break into the patient's house." Kutner hesitated.

"Got your directions crossed up a bit. The patient doesn't live here."

Taub got tired of watching Kutner's dance of hesitation and dove straight in. "Foreman is being an idiot about this case. We hoped you might give us some fresh insight on it before he kills her. If you're feeling up to it, that is."

House sat up a bit straighter, the pinpoints of flame in his blue eyes coming to life. "Symptoms?"

The next twenty minutes were the most useful House had felt since he was hurt, and as he closed the door behind Kutner and Taub, he felt the usual surge of satisfaction. He still had it. In spite of everything, he still had it. His father was wrong; he hadn't been a failure at quite everything in life.

He limped back to the couch and stretched out, enjoying the moment. Within 5 minutes, he had once again fallen asleep.


	28. Chapter 28

Wilson knocked and then unlocked the door and entered House's apartment, immediately going into stealth mode as he realized that the diagnostician was asleep on the couch. He quietly put the groceries he was bearing away in the kitchen, then returned to stand in front of the couch, looking down at his friend.

House really was starting to look better physically. The bruises were fading across the left side of his face, and the stitched gash looked neatly sewn now instead of offended. He looked relaxed and at peace at the moment, and Wilson debated with himself whether he ought to wake him up. How long had House been asleep? How long would it continue to be peaceful?

Total irony, debating whether you should wake your friend up out of a sound sleep to ensure that he was sleeping soundly.

The phone rang at that moment, and Wilson immediately pounced on it, retreating to the door of the kitchen. "Hello?" he said softly.

"James? This is Blythe." Wilson's hands clenched on the phone, and it gave a beep of protest as he hit a button accidentally. "James? Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here," he replied.

"Is Greg around?"

"He's . . . unavailable at the moment."

Blythe sounded puzzled. "Why are you whispering?"

"He's asleep, and I'm trying not to wake him up." Wilson was giving his self-control a workout, keeping his voice from rising when what he really wanted to do was rip Blythe into shreads. He might have been unobservant over the years and misjudged his friend, but she was the hands-down champion in that department.

"He's asleep? It's only 5:45. Is something wrong?" The concern in her voice was genuine. Is something wrong? Wilson closed his eyes and counted to 10. "James?"

"He had an accident last week at work. He was banged up a bit, but his injuries are healing."

"Oh my God. What happened? Is he okay?"

"He'll be okay. He tripped and fell in his office."

She sighed. "Oh, Greg. He always was clumsy."

Wilson's self-control evaporated at the easy, practiced way in which she placed fault on his friend. "NO! He is NOT clumsy. Not even now with his leg, and definitely not before." Images flooded his mind of House, the graceful, catlike, balanced athlete, in his element in the middle of some physical game.

"James, settle down. No need to get upset. Things happen; I understand that. Well, give him a message for me. I'm going to be coming through New Jersey weekend after next, and I thought I could stop by and see my boy. Make sure he's taking care of himself, you know. I haven't seen him since the funeral." She prattled obliviously on.

"BLYTHE!" He almost made it a curse, and she stopped in mid sentence.

On the couch, House stirred and then sat up, looking at Wilson. "What's wrong? Is that my mother?"

Wilson took a deep breath. "Yes, it's your mother." Blythe had fallen into puzzled silence, and House had him pinned in his steady gaze. Wilson couldn't tear her apart in front of his friend. No matter how much she deserved that confrontation, House did not. "Just a minute, Blythe, he just woke up. Here." He passed the phone off, then retreated to the kitchen, his agitated hands picking up and putting down utensils, his ears at full attention, unashamedly listening to the conversation from the next room.

"Hi, Mom. . . yes, I did. I fell into my desk at work." Wilson clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw started to hurt. House was every bit as good as she was at automatically assigning fault for an injury to himself. Years and years of early practice. Listening to the two of them was like watching a movie - and knowing that it bears no real resemblance to actual life. "No, I'm fine. Cut my face a little." Right, and gloss over the bad concussion and the broken wrist. Wilson never would have expected him to mention his leg. "Yes, he gets a little wound up at times." Ah ha, so she was asking about him now. Blythe was concerned about him. Such a great maternal model, she was. Wilson realized the physical source of the growing headache and forced himself to relax his jaw. "Yes, he can be a little over the top, but he's a good friend, Mom." A good friend. House still, after everything, considered him a good friend. Reassuring - and humbling. "Two weekends?" House's voice up until that point had been so even and casual that he might have been discussing the weather rather than serious injury caused by people he trusted, but now his voice tightened up, tension pouring over it like a waterfall. "I might be busy that weekend. I'll have to check the schedule, and my calendar is at work. . . Mom, I'm not lying. Things have been hectic lately. I've lost track of time a bit." Lying. He had said that he could not lie to his mother, but Wilson realized now that that was only half of the picture. He felt guilty, not for the huge lie in the middle that had been forced on him, but for the little social lies surrounding, as if he had had to lie to her and support his father's central lies to her so much in childhood that the outlying peripheral shell of life MUST be based on truth. Misleading her by telling her he'd simply fallen into his desk didn't bother him at all. Making up an imaginary meeting on the schedule did. "Well, I suppose . . . I don't know. If I'm around, I guess we could have lunch. There was a conference coming up sometime soon. Look, Wilson was cooking dinner, and it's almost done." That lie sounded just as pained as the one about his schedule. "I've got to go, okay? I'll call you back as soon as I get a chance to see the schedule." Again, he was lying. "Right, me too. Okay. Bye."

Wilson exited the kitchen as House clicked end. The diagnostician looked away, his eyes seeking any refuge in the room. "She, um, wants to come visit. In two weekends."

"I know. She was just leaving me a message for you before you woke up." He took the phone from House and returned it to the base.

House stared at the cast on his left wrist. "She'll know I was hurt more than I told her."

Wilson sighed. "You don't have to hide it from her. Nothing's going to happen if she knows you broke your wrist." He could near guarantee that House would hide all other hideable injuries. The force of habit was far too strong.

"Why did you yell at her?"

"I'm . . . I apologize for waking you up. I was trying not to."

"You're deflecting. I must be having a bad influence on you."

Wilson gave a weak grin. "I was just . . . mad at how she brushed it off when I told her you'd fallen. Oh, she was concerned about whether you were hurt, but the fault automatically went to you."

"She didn't know, Wilson. She never knew any of it."

"She SHOULD HAVE!" Wilson started pacing the room in jerky, uneven strides. "How could she just brush it off and go on? Once or twice, maybe, but not . . ." He stopped, noticing House's thinking expression. "What is it?"

"Have you been taking your meds lately? You seem awfully on edge tonight." He sounded genuinely concerned.

"You're worried about ME?" Wilson spun off for another agitated lap of the living room.

"YES, I'm worried about you." House swung his leg over to sit upright on the couch instead of stretched along it. His voice abruptly dropped in volume. "You and Cuddy and the job are all I've got."

Wilson stopped and forced himself to take deep breaths. "That's it," House approved. "Sit down and calm down. And have you been taking your meds?"

He didn't know actually, lost in the shocked scramble of the last few days. "I'm not sure."

"Well, there's a little thing on the bottle called a refill date, and there's another thing called number of pills. You compare the number of pills left in the bottle to the date, and it let's you know if you're on track or not." House tried to make his tone joking, but the concern came through. "See, I can read directions on prescription bottles."

Wilson stood up. "I'd better get dinner started."

"Wilson, check the meds." House's tone was firm, and Wilson pulled the bottle out of his briefcase and shook them out to count them. He hadn't had them in a few days, in fact. He swallowed one and put the bottle back.

"There. Happy now?"

"Yes. And happier if you stay on them."

The phone rang again, and Wilson, much more mobile, got there first. It was Cuddy. "Wilson, are you all eating right now?"

"Not yet. We got sidetracked."

She didn't even blink at that mystery. "Let me talk to him."

"What's the matter?"

"Let me talk to him." Her tone was inflexible, and he passed the phone on to his friend.

"It's Cuddy," he said, and he saw the quick "caught in the act" expression flit across House's face.

"Hello, Cuddy," he said with exaggerated brightness. "How are you and the twins this fine evening?"

"Something strange happened just now, House. Your team's patient wasn't doing well at all earlier today, but Taub and Kutner went off to break into her house early this afternoon."

"I've trained them well," House quipped proudly. "Breaking into houses on their own initiative. The little ones are growing up. Seems just yesterday that they were playing in the diagnostic sandbox, and now they're . . ."

"BUT," Cuddy continued, mowing over him without hesitation, "when they came back, they apparently returned with an entire new line of thought on the case, a whole new way to put the symptoms together, new tests to try, new treatment to start while waiting."

"I've trained them well," House repeated.

"When I checked on the patient just now before leaving, she was already starting to respond to the new line of treatment. Looks like she's turning the corner. I congratulated Foreman, and he was still puzzled, said he was sure it had been lupus, but he told me how Taub and Kutner came back from their break-in so fired up with new ideas that he agreed to let them try. Don't you think it's a bit odd that they could get a complete turn-around in thought just from a break-in?"

"You have never appreciated the amount you can learn from someone's home, Cuddy. It's helped us out several times."

She sighed. "Cut the smokescreen, House. Did Kutner and Taub come over to consult you this afternoon?"

"Oops, I think Wilson just about has dinner ready. Got to go." That lie to Cuddy didn't sound any more convincing than it had to Blythe several minutes earlier.

"House! Were they there this afternoon?"

"In fact, I think dinner's getting cold now. Better hurry up and eat."

"House, you are SUPPOSED to be resting. You were badly injured last week. You aren't anywhere near 100%, and you know it. I specifically ORDERED them to leave you alone."

He dropped the act. "Well, it's a good thing for the patient that they didn't." He sighed. "Cuddy, I'm going to go crazy just sitting here with nothing else . . . with nothing to think about. Talking to the team for 20 minutes isn't going to make my head explode." He could hear the stiff disapproval coming through the phone. "They came over just for a few minutes, talked to me, and then left. It was hardly strenuous. I can't be totally shut off from the job right now; I've got to have something I can do right." His voice dropped to nearly inaudible levels on that last word. Wilson was still standing there beside the couch, not even trying to look like he wasn't listening to this conversation.

Cuddy was silent for a moment. "I just want you to get better, House." She didn't limit it to physically. Her tone had lost all of its edge, as well.

"I know." There was a world of meaning in the pause.

After nearly 30 seconds, Cuddy broke the silence. "I'll tell them they can call you for phone consultations. 20 minutes maximum, no more than 2 a day. You are still healing physically; you don't need to be back to work full time for a few more days."

"Thank you," House said with absolute sincerity.

"You're welcome. You'd better get to Wilson's dinner."

"He really hadn't cooked yet. I lied."

"I know. Good night, House."

"Good night, Cuddy." He hit end and handed the phone back to Wilson.

Wilson smiled. "So, she caught your team talking to you?"

"Foreman was being an idiot. Taub and Kutner were worried for the patient. They did ask if I was feeling up to it first."

"And did Cuddy schedule an execution at dawn?"

"Nope. She actually agreed to let them call me twice a day."

Wilson was surprised. "Really? She'll probably hold a stop watch on them, though."

"Probably. It will give me something to do, at least."

"House, about Blythe . . . "

"Wilson." House's firm, quiet tone cut him off. "Can we PLEASE not discuss my mother, or my father, or anything else besides what's on TV for the rest of tonight?"

Wilson sighed. "Okay, House. I'll go start dinner."

House hauled himself up from the couch and limped off down the hall to the bathroom, and Wilson headed into the kitchen, still mad at Blythe. Slowly as he worked, though, the thoughts changed to Kutner and Taub sneaking over for a consult behind Cuddy's and Foreman's backs, and then to the conversation between Cuddy and House, and he was smiling by the time House returned. They ate in pleasant chit-chat about nothing, watched TV for a while, and then House went on to bed. Wilson settled on the couch, staring at the phone, wanting to call Blythe and pick up where he left off, but he didn't. He did, however, mentally schedule a face-to-face conversation, a PRIVATE face-to-face conversation, in two weekends.


	29. Chapter 29

Hello, readers, and thanks again for all the reviews. I'm glad you like the anticipation of Blythe's visit, and some of you even guessed in advance that I was heading there, since I had been setting it up. I like surprising readers with cliffhangers, but it's also reassuring to know that they are on your wavelength and picking up hints, too. I hate it myself as a reader when the author doesn't play fair, doesn't lay groundwork and simply routinely drops things right and left out of heaven for us. So I do try to give you hints and road signs along the way, and I'm glad those are being taken. That said, the main Blythe plot comes in the sequel, not in Pranks, but you will see that it does play a significant role in House's decisions and thoughts even in this story. She will actually come, and there will actually be showdowns, but not quite yet. :) Anticipation is half the fun. Meanwhile, enjoy chapter 29! Pranks doesn't have too much further to go.

(H/C)

After Wilson left the next morning, House retrieved his laptop and settled on the couch with his leg propped up. It was time to get down the business of excuse manufacturing. He was certain of one thing; he definitely did not want to see Blythe two weekends hence. Visits were awkward enough normally, although at least his father was out of the way now. But at the moment, with all of his memories reawakened and all of his nerves on edge, he didn't think he was up to the effort required to keep up a front for his mother. No doubt the cast still on his wrist would prompt her into the usual false concern about his clumsiness, reminding both of them of his childhood. Nope, two weekends from now sounded like an excellent time to be out of town. He simply had to come up with an actual medical obligation so that when he told his mother, it wouldn't be a lie.

His first hopeful thought had been that there actually would be a conference somewhere that weekend in either diagnostics, infectious disease, or nephrology. His reputation assured that he was welcome at any such conference, even on a week and a half's notice. In fact, his appearances and travel had been so curtailed since the infarction that any conference manager would have been ecstatic to take a call from him and to rework the whole schedule. A lecture by House was a rare treat these days in the medical world, and on those rare occasions when they took place, the listeners who were familiar with his personal reputation were stunned at just how good of a speaker he was. When he chose to, House had every bit as much organization, charisma, and magnetism as anyone else on the lecture circuit. People would have lined up and even paid admission - and would have left counting it well worth it.

Unfortunately, there wasn't a handy conference available on that weekend. Damn. House ran a few more searches, cursing at the unwieldy cast on his left wrist and the slight stiffness it forced on his fingers. Even using his substantial imagination, there wasn't any good conference possibility available. He widened out his search, going to a few professional sites and inspecting their listings. Then he sat back and withdrew his fingers entirely from the keyboard, staring intently at the screen with his latest search as if it were a whiteboard. Symptoms. Diagnoses. Possible treatments. Risks they entailed. For him, everything possible was presented as an equation and submitted to logical analysis.

For a good 30 minutes, he sat staring at the screen, bumping it impatiently when it tried to go to screen saver. He picked up the phone and put it back down three times before he finally dialed the first number at the top of the results list from his search for out-of-state psychiatrists. "Hello. Do you have weekend appointments?"

(H/C)

At PPTH, Cuddy was performing her own analysis. First thing that morning, she had retrieved House's voluminous medical file and was now going through it. Of course, the early records, the childhood records, were not here. Like most abuse victims, no doubt he had been taken to as wide a variety of facilities as possible. No repeated visits anywhere to raise suspicion. His father's military nomadism would have assisted that. Still, there might well be clues in here, such as the old fracture on his left arm. With an injured child, any physician as a mandated reporter had a responsibility to consider and rule out abuse. With a competent and particularly a sarcastic adult, nobody would have ever bothered trying to assemble old puzzle pieces. Any notice of a prior injury would no doubt have been greeted with an insult and question of relevance by House. Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't have enough current issues to keep his doctors occupied. She winced again at the thickness of the file. The infarction. The shooting. The bus accident.

How much thicker would this file be if it truly were a complete lifetime record?

Cuddy hesitated at the beginning, fighting down the feeling that she was eavesdropping. I'm his doctor, she reminded herself. I am actually at this moment treating him for sleep disturbance due to PTSD symptoms. This is definitely relevant. The desire for information was more than professional need or mere curiosity, though. Since his tale of the carpet glue, she couldn't help wondering how many other episodes were out there, things he had carried alone for far too long. As much as her limited knowledge sickened her, she still wanted to increase it, to try to gain more understanding of him, to try to find any new ideas for how she might help. She wanted to know what he knew.

She squared her shoulders and dove in, looking for the things lurking in the background. The first thing she found was on a chest x-ray from a bout of pneumonia a few months after his infarction. The whole first paragraph of the radiologist's report described the current, acute infiltrates. Below that was a second paragraph, merely informational, which she herself as attending doctor had simply glossed over as irrelevant. "Incidental finding of old rib fractures, 4th, 5th, and 6th ribs, right side." She felt her own ribs, counting down, imagining the blow that would have caused that. She wanted herself to picture it. She wanted to share this with him. She proceeded on through the record, discovering that House also had an old collarbone fracture on the left and, chillingly, had had four out of five toes on his right foot broken. There was the old mid radius fracture from the stairs, of course. One other thing she found occurred ironically in the pictures from his leg surgery. The first picture of the leg before it had been opened showed pale, ill-appearing skin, hinting at the impaired circulation and devastation beneath, but the paleness also accentuated what appeared to be a set of 3 small, round scars on his thigh. Of course, dealing with the infarction, nobody had paid any attention to those, but they looked for all the world like cigarette burns. Cuddy suddenly realized looking at the photos that those marks would have been destroyed in the muscle dissection. Nobody would ever find 3 tiny burn scars in the Grand Canyon of his thigh anymore. She flipped on through the record, finding nothing else that jumped out at her, only guessing how much was missing. She wondered what full body x-rays on him would show.

The reality of it slammed into her again in a tidal wave of guilt and concern. "Oh God, House, how did we not see it?"

The tap on her door made her look up guiltily, afraid to be caught in guilt. It was Wilson. He dropped into the chair across her desk. "Blythe is coming to visit weekend after next."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Great. That's JUST what he needs."

"He was in full scramble on the phone trying to come up with a plausible excuse."

"I'll help him find one if I have to," she stated. "If he doesn't want to see her, I'll back him up on it." This time, she would not force him to spend time with his parent and try to arrange his agenda. Wilson started to say something and then stopped. "What is it?"

"Never mind. Outside of Blythe calling, we had a pretty quiet night, although he was totally locked up after talking to her. Didn't want to discuss anything at all that mattered." Wilson picked up a letter opener from her desk and started to fiddle with it. "You should have heard her, Cuddy. And him. He was just as bad. I answered the phone, and the minute she heard he'd been hurt, she immediately assumed that it was his fault, was telling me how clumsy he'd always been. And he just let her assume that, did everything but say so outright. The thing is, it was almost automatic. He didn't start to get upset until he found out she was coming. Lying to her about getting hurt, and having her misunderstand how he got hurt, was so routine for him that he didn't even have to think first before saying it." He shook his head. "Is that his file?"

She nodded. "I was just wondering . . . what else we might have found in here, if we were looking." She flipped back to the first chest x-ray report. "Look here, Wilson."

Outside the door of her office, in the clinic, Nurse Brenda glanced over occasionally as she went about her work. Cuddy and Wilson, obviously in consultation over a file, calm and professional, looking like any two routine doctors on a routine case. Brenda would have never admitted it, but she missed House. It was far too quiet around here.


	30. Chapter 30

Cuddy knocked on the door to House's apartment and deliberately waited a few seconds before using her key - not long enough to make him get up, but long enough to be a definite request to enter instead of just barging on in, even though he had given her the key himself now. He was stretched out on the couch watching TV, but his ice blue eyes were already fixed on the door when she entered. "Hey," she greeted him. "Did you behave yourself today?"

He arched an eyebrow. "How long have you known me?"

She grinned. "I tried calling you twice, and the phone was busy. The team was already at their quota for the day, so it couldn't have been them." She had carefully provided them with the new rules that morning but also reminded them, with an especially frosty glare for Kutner and Taub, that she would be keeping close score. "Who were you talking to?"

"Turns out, I can save a lot of money by switching to Geico." She faced him firmly, determined not to let his playfulness distract her before she got an answer - although she was glad that he seemed to be in a good mood.

"Who was it, House? Outside of the team, who would be calling you?" Other than his mother, but she thought she could safely rule that one out so soon after last night.

"Phones work both ways, you know."

"Okay, so who did you call?" She put her bag and purse down and came over to stand beside the couch, arms folded.

He relented. "Actually, I was calling through a list of psychiatrists and screening them. I set up an initial consult with one."

"Seriously? That's wonderful, House." She sat down on the edge of the couch beside him. "Who is it? Somebody in PPTH or another hospital?"

"Jensen in New York." He caught her reaction. "That still falls within the rules. You just said it had to be office encounters with a professional, didn't specify where. Three more clinic hours off, please." He extended his hand. "That puts us at two months, one day, and three hours you owe me, with all restitution, bets, and deals included."

She frowned. "Why on earth would you go clear to New York for a psychiatrist?"

"Easy. So I wouldn't be here."

The light dawned. "Let me guess. That initial appointment wouldn't happen to be weekend after next, would it?"

"Bingo. Called until I found somebody out of town with weekend appointments."

Cuddy winced inwardly at the thought that House would rather talk to a psychiatrist than his mother, although she completely understood. Still, hadn't anything ever been normal for him? "Wilson told me your mother was coming through. I was going to offer to lie to her for you."

He held his hand to his heart dramatically. "What a statement of esteem. My . . . boss will lie to my mother for me. How much better can it get?"

She caught his slight hesitation before the word boss, and she answered his end question honestly, knowing he hadn't totally meant it as a joke. "I don't know, but I'm willing to explore the possibilities. Meanwhile, we need to eat, but first, I want to check on your injuries again." She leaned across him and inspected the fading bruise and the stitched gash. "I'll send some wound scissors with Wilson tomorrow night, and we can get these stitches out. That's healing up nicely." She saw the flicker in his eyes, quickly suppressed. "What?"

"How long are you two going to keep staying over here?" There was an odd note behind his voice, not his usual frustration at "babysitters," as he called it. More like genuine uncertainty. She realized suddenly that House didn't really want to be by himself right now, not through the nights, at least. Friends were as much medicine as zolpidem.

"As long as you need us to. Your choice," she emphasized. His eyes retreated. "We're not getting tired of you, House."

"You should be. You've got your own lives." His lighthearted mood of a few minutes ago was draining like water down a drain.

"And you are part of those lives. We're here because we want to be, House." She picked up his left hand, inspecting the fingers, checking circulation below and above the cast. "How does the wrist feel?"

"Aches a bit. Not too bad."

She moved off the couch to kneel beside it and reached for his leg, waiting for permission. He tensed up immediately but then nodded, and she carefully palpated his thigh through his pants. "The swelling and cramps seem to be going down. Not quite normal yet, but less. The NSAIDS are working. Is it feeling better?"

He nodded. "Relatively speaking." The leg, of course, would never again feel well.

She moved down a bit to his ankle. "I'm going to check your distal pulses and circulation." She took his sock off and first felt the pulses at the ankle, reassuringly strong, then moved to the toes, checking circulation in the nail beds. The x-ray findings suddenly came flooding back to her. Four out of five toes on his right foot had old fractures. Four out of five. Short of dropping an anvil on your foot, there was no way for that to be accidental. Still, the systematic ritual of it appalled her even more. She caressed the digits as if apologizing to them and wondered how many unseen scars and wounds he actually had.

"What?" She had hesitated too long, and she looked up to find House's eyes fixed on her with his trademark curious expression.

"Sorry, my mind wandered. Thinking of something at work today." She took off his left sock and compared the pulses and circulation on that uninjured side, then put both socks back on and stood up. "I'd say you're on the mend. Stay away from trip wires in the future. You're safe from me, but given the number of people you've ticked off in the past, I'd still watch it." It was hard to joke about her actions, but she knew he'd prefer that to further apology.

"Nobody else would have the guts to actually do it. So can I get out of jail yet, Mommy?" He picked up the bantering tone and handed it right back to her.

"Let's give it another day or two. Maybe you could put in a half day on Friday afternoon." She stood up. "What do you want to eat?"

He shrugged. "We've already had pizza this week. What about Thai? They have vegetables, too."

"Fine. You order." She headed into the kitchen and came back with a drink for each of them, waiting until he hung up the phone. "By the way, how were you planning to get to New York?" She'd be willing to take him, but she thought he'd probably prefer to do this alone. She'd give him that much choice, but not full rein. The thought of House on his motorcycle on possibly icy roads with one arm in a cast scared her.

He heard and read correctly the firmness in her tone. "I wasn't going to try the motorcycle. Not one-handed and in February."

"Damn right. I don't want to have to steal it, but I will. I don't want you on that thing until the cast comes off."

"But Moooommmm." He stretched it out in exaggerated protest, then dropped the front. He knew she was right, after all. "The old car will get me there and back. I'll call Mom tomorrow for her agenda and counterbalance it. Might not even have to stay all night in New York; it depends on whether she was coming through for just Saturday or Sunday, too. Tell Wilson, so we've all got our stories straight. I'll be out of state on important hospital business." He saw her quirked eyebrow. "It's not a lie. Avoiding clinic duty is very important hospital business."

She laughed. "I'll pass the word along. So, other than calling psychiatrists and talking to the team, what did you do today?"

"The usual. Watched TV, played video games, worked on Cuddy's . . ." He slammed the verbal brakes on so fast that she almost heard the protesting screech.

"Cuddy's what? What are you doing, House? Are you plotting against me?" Visions of retribution pranks danced in her head. Was he planning to steal her bra and fly it from the flagpole at PPTH? Send out memos to everyone in her appointment book for one day rescheduling all of them to the exact same time? She silently groaned imagining it, although she knew she deserved a return prank from him. She would try to take her medicine like a good girl.

House didn't look mischievous at the moment, though. He looked almost sheepish, almost vulnerable, almost caring. "House," she repeated. "What are you up to?"

He sighed. "Cuddy's Serenade. That's what I named the piece I'm writing." His eyes were fixed firmly on the couch cushions.

Cuddy was stunned. This was like the night when she'd entered her renovated office, almost expecting a final prank from House after their recent tug-of-war, and instead discovered the desk, the most thoughtful, romantic, and sensitive thing he'd ever done for her. Up until now, that is. He never lost the ability to surprise her. The gift of the desk had been lost in misunderstanding, but she wouldn't let this one go by unacknowledged. "It's beautiful, House. I was trying to hum a bit of it again just yesterday, in fact. May I hear it again?" He hesitated. "Please?"

Still not meeting her eyes, he pried himself off the couch and limped over to the piano. She saw the slight pat he gave the instrument as he settled onto the bench, like he was greeting an old and beloved friend with whom words are unnecessary. He picked up both hands, then gave a sigh of frustration as he flexed the restricted left fingers and took that hand away, folding it down into his lap. One-handed only, he began to play. The piece had matured from the sketch she'd heard two nights before. She closed her eyes and listened to it. So much longing, so much hope, so much distance still between. It was an encapsulation of their entire relationship thus far, possibilities and fears included. Cuddy's Serenade.

He finished and sat quietly, right hand resting gently on the keys, left hand in his lap. She stood and went over to him. He had shut his eyes while he was playing and hadn't yet opened then, not wanting to see her just now, not wanting to see the inadequacy of his message, the latest failure in a long line. He could hold eloquent conversations with the piano, but he could never quite manage to talk to her. Eyes shut, lost in thought, he didn't notice her approach and jumped as she touched his shoulder, then settled onto the piano bench beside him. He scooted over slightly to make room, but his eyes were still shut. Cuddy grasped his head firmly between her hands, turning it toward her. "House, look at me." He shook his head slightly, unable to stand seeing his gift fall short. "House, open your eyes and look at me." Her voice was a siren luring him, irresistible in spite of his defenses yelling of shipwreck ahead. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Ice blue met blue gray. "Thank you," she said simply, and then she pulled his head down to hers, and their lips came crashing together.

The sharp knocking on the door slowly penetrated their haze a minute later, and they pulled apart with mutual rueful expressions. "Couldn't they be just a little bit slower on delivery?" House retorted. He started to haul himself up from the piano bench, and Cuddy scrambled up first, grabbing her purse on the way to the door. She paid and tipped the Thai delivery man and then turned back to find that House had returned to the couch. His blue eyes were on her now, weighing, assessing.

She settled next to him on the couch, handed his carton to him as well as a set of the provided chopsticks, then opened her own. House held up his carton in mock toast, and she bumped her own against it and then settled down to the meal. House had reverted to the sarcastic, mocking House, enjoying the fact that even one-handed, he could handle chopsticks far better than she could, but she followed him gladly into the exchange. Cuddy's Serenade. Not only the name, but the song itself. He had written it for her. That was worth a thousand Housian verbal darts.

After they ate, she took her empty carton and his half empty one to the kitchen, tucking his in the fridge for later use. "What do you want to do?" she asked as she returned to the living room. He would want to back off a bit from his musical declaration, she was sure, but it didn't matter. He had said it. He had said it perfectly, in the one language above all that he spoke fluently. No translation was needed.

He looked at his left wrist, seeing only the cast, and then at the watch on his right. After several days, he was still getting used to the watch being on that side. He had fought off a nap today, both through stubbornness and through activity, and he was tired, but he didn't want to end the time with her quite yet. Drugs were no substitute for this. "Want to watch a movie? I'll even let you pick and promise not to dissect it too much."

"That'll be the day." She picked one out of his extensive collection, surprised at the variety. He appeared to have something for every possible mood. She put it on and then settled next to him on the couch. Slowly, his arm came around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. House tried to live up to his promise and even did so for about 15 minutes before beginning to find procedural or plausibility errors in the romantic comedy she had chosen. Gradually, though, his barbed remarks slowed as his head came closer to her shoulder, and she realized suddenly that he had fallen asleep.

Now she did have a dilemma. Let him sleep here in this position, and his leg, still not back to usual, would be annoyed again. He also undoubtedly would fall into another nightmare at some point. Still, it was warm and comfortable sitting here with him propped against her, using her as a pillow. He did look tired. She hated to disturb him. Just an hour, she decided. I'll wake him up when the movie is over. That will be soon enough.

Within twenty minutes, her own eyes had fallen shut. The TV flickered forlornly on as the audience of two drifted off into mutual rest.

Cuddy wasn't sure how much time had passed when she awoke, but she could feel House next to her. He had tensed up, his fingers twitching, and his head pulled away from her shoulder. "House!" She tried to pull him back against her. "House, wake up!"

He snapped awake as usual with a jerk, kicking out with his bad leg at the same time, and his foot hit the coffee table. The jolt raced through the offended limb like a forest fire, and he gasped as his eyes snapped open. "NO! I won't."

"House!" She put her arm around his shoulders. "It's okay, House. I'm here." He stopped trying to pull away, but his hand was still working at his thigh. "Do you need some diazepam?" He nodded after a moment, and she went to get some, bringing it back with a glass of water.

He was sitting on the couch, eyes shining with unshed tears, still sweating a bit, his hand worrying at the leg. She tucked the pills into his mouth herself and lifted the glass of water to his lips, saving him from stopping the massage. He gulped them down. "Guess I fell asleep," he said after a minute.

Cuddy had sat back down next to him. "I meant to wake you up when the movie was over. I apologize." She saw his eyes track down the leg toward his foot. "Did you hurt your foot kicking the coffee table?"

He shook his head, breathing and pulse slowly falling back toward normal. "I was dreaming about . . . he hurt me, Cuddy. And I couldn't do anything about it."

She scooted closer to him, though they were already touching. "I know."

He hesitated. "My foot . . . he broke my toes if I'd stayed out past curfew . . . or had a friend he didn't like. . . or said something to him without adding sir." He shuddered. "He would tell me to say I was sorry, to say I wouldn't do it again. He'd get more mad when I didn't." He trailed off into silence, and then slowly, in lonely tracks, the tears spilled over and slid down his face. Cuddy pulled his head back into her shoulder, letting him cry silently, doing nothing more than being there. Finally, he was still.

"House," she said after several minutes. He straightened up to look at her. "It's getting late, but before you go to bed, would you play Cuddy's Serenade again for me?"

He nodded and limped heavily over to the piano, positioning himsefl on the bench, then starting. She closed her eyes, just as he had closed his, and the music wrapped around both of them and carried them away on its current.


	31. Chapter 31

Wilson was sitting at his desk looking at and through paperwork when Cuddy entered his office the next morning. "So," he said before she could speak, "what was last night's revelation?"

She was surprised at first at the edge on his tone, then understood. "He will try to talk to you again, Wilson. Give him time."

"I don't have much choice. It just . . ." He flipped his pen between his fingers. "I had my big chance on the funeral trip and blew it. Plus accusing him last week of simply seeing his current injuries as a chance to score drugs. I can't blame him for not wanting to open up to me."

Cuddy sat down on the other side of his desk. "He WILL talk to you, Wilson. You haven't lost it. To be fair, a lot of the things he's told me have been things we just ran across, not direct interrogation. You can't interrogate him on this."

"I know. Not that it would work, anyway. Pinning somebody down and saying, 'Confide in me right now, damn it,' isn't likely to be a successful strategy." He dropped the pen and lifted his eyes to meet hers. "I'm just annoyed at myself for all I've missed over the years."

"Believe me, I know the feeling. Even the whole thing with Tritter . . . did I tell you about Tritter?" He shook his head. "House told me that Tritter assaulted him first to start that whole process. He kicked House's cane out from under him in the exam room. The thermometer was just getting even, as far as House saw it." She dropped her eyes and fidgeted with the edge of her jacket, then looked back up. "I actually insisted that House apologize to him. Never once did I ask why he'd done what he had. Have you EVER known him to assault somebody first?"

"No." Wilson clenched his fists, unsure if he wanted to hit himself or Tritter. "I went even further than you did. I sold him out." They sat there in mutual guilt for a minute, and then Wilson stated, "The only thing that makes me more mad than thinking about everything I missed is thinking about everything Blythe missed."

"Yes. Hard to believe anybody could be deluded to that extent." Cuddy suddenly straightened up, remembering. "About Blythe, we're supposed to all get our stories straight. House has an appointment that Saturday with a psychiatrist" - Wilson's eyebrows went up - "in New York." Wilson's eyebrows climbed higher. "Turns out that the right combination to get him to agree to therapy is both getting out of clinic duty and avoiding his mother. So he'll be gone that Saturday at least. He's calling his mother today to find out her agenda, and that will determine whether he comes back Saturday night or not. But what we're supposed to tell Blythe, if she talks to us, is that he's out of state on hospital business."

Wilson put that together immediately. "Avoiding clinic duty equals hospital business." He smiled for the first time that morning. "I'm glad about the psychiatrist, though, even if it is in New York. He needs more help with this than we can give him. Is he driving himself up there?"

"Apparently. I'll go with him if he asks, but I don't think we should volunteer up front. The therapy is something he has to do on his own. In other news from last night, I want you to take sterile scissors with you and remove his stitches tonight. Also, if he keeps improving physically, I said he might try starting back half days tomorrow. That will be your call, depending on how he's moving in the morning."

Wilson nodded, feeling better for the assignments. "So, did he tell you anything last night?"

"Yes, but only because we fell asleep over a movie, and he woke up out of a dream again. He was too rattled to deflect right then. He said his father broke his toes for things like having unapproved friends or not saying sir with every sentence."

Wilson's fists clenched again on the desk. "HOW was it possible for Blythe to live in the same house and not notice something wrong?"

She shook her head, anger in her own eyes. "I don't know."

"Anything else happen last night?" He saw her soft smile of remembrance and immediately zoned in. "Cuddy? Did you talk some more about the two of you?"

"In a way. He named the piece he's composing Cuddy's Serenade. He played it for me. It says everything, Wilson." She could still hear it in her mind - undoubtedly not like House could, but enough. "Maybe there is a chance for us."

Wilson gave her his second smile of the morning. "I know there is. And both of you deserve it."

(H/C)

House played a few rounds of video games to practice evasive actions and then dialed the phone, promising himself some piano time as a reward afterward.

"Hello."

"Hi, Mom."

"Oh, Greg! I'm so glad you called, honey. How are you feeling?"

"I'm getting better all the time. I'll probably go back to work tomorrow."

"You really need to be more careful, you know. Especially now that . . . "

A fault line appeared across his smooth voice. "Now that I'm a cripple?"

"Well, it does make things more . . . difficult for you. I know you don't like talking about it, but it's a fact. You need to slow down and take your time moving around. Goodness knows, you could bang yourself up enough as a child. It's because you were always going full speed, you know. Never still." Her voice was fond with remembrances. The All-American mother, he thought. He had never known whether to be annoyed at the illusion or grateful for it.

"Mom, I did check my schedule for weekend after next. I'm going to be out of state on hospital business."

"Oh, no. I did want to see you."

"Were you just coming through Princeton that weekend?"

"Just on Saturday. I'm going lighthousing on the coast with a group of seniors the next week, and our trip starts Sunday. I was just going through Princeton on the way up to meet them, but because of my volunteer work, I can't really leave earlier. So Saturday won't work at all for you?"

He gave a silent sigh of relief. "No, I'm sorry, Mom."

"Well, it was short notice. Maybe next time?"

"Maybe next time. I've got to go now, Mom. It's almost time for my meds." Absolutely true, with the call deliberately scheduled that way.

"You take care of yourself now, Greg. And say hello again to James for me."

"I will. Bye, Mom."

"Bye, Greg."

He hung up the phone and moved over to the piano for a few minutes of celebration before lunch. Something brisk and marchlike and victorious, he decided. His main goal for the day was accomplished successfully.

(H/C)

"It's NOT her lungs. Check her heart. Do a stress echo and especially pay attention to the valves." House looked up as Wilson entered the apartment. "Right. Got to go, the cops are here. If I don't show up tomorrow, send bail money." He hung up and gave Wilson an innocent look.

"Didn't you already have two calls with your team today? They said earlier in the afternoon they'd talked to you."

"It's already tomorrow somewhere in the world," House replied guilelessly. Wilson grinned.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better and better. Looking forward to getting out of jail tomorrow."

"Potentially getting out of jail tomorrow," Wilson reminded him. "Final parole decision is still pending."

"You know, there's a monster truck rally next month, and I've got front-row seats."

"Which you already mentioned two weeks ago. You can't bribe me, House." Wilson sat down next to him on the couch and inspected the cut, then unpacked the sterile wound scissors he had brought from PPTH. "Hold your head still, and we'll get these out." He snipped the sutures carefully, pulled them out, then applied antibiotic ointment over the tiny holes.

"While you're at it, there's a saw in the tool chest in the bottom of the closet."

"Nice try. The cast stays on." Wilson stood up. "So, what do you want to eat?"

"Pizza sounds good." He saw Wilson's stern expression. "I ate healthy stuff for lunch. You should know, you made it. How am I supposed to get healthy again with only healthy food? We are officially omnivores, you know."

"Tell that to Cuddy." Wilson relented, not wanting to disrupt the almost normal-feeling banter. "Okay, we'll have pizza." He called and placed the order, then brought them each a drink and settled down in the chair to wait. "Cuddy was telling me about Cuddy's Serenade."

A look of uncertain hopefulness swept across House's face. "Do you think she really liked it?"

"She loved it, House. She was going around with a smile on her face most of the day - except for a scene in the clinic this afternoon."

"You mean there are scenes in the clinic when I'm not there to cause them? I'll have to file that as proof next time someone accuses me of turning the hospital upside down. So what happened?"

"A woman came in with three guys, and she was pregnant."

"And these were multiple choice father candidates A, B, and C?" House's eyes lit up, wishing he'd been there.

"Yep. She hauled all of them in and was demanding paternity testing, as well as STDs, but the thing is, A, B, and C hadn't known until this morning that they were multiple choice. Everybody was accusing everybody else of lying, cheating, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. You should have seen it. It was better than an episode of Maury."

"What did Cuddy do?" House was smiling now.

"She put them on the schedule for tests, but she said that any time one of them opened their mouths, other than to respond to a direct medical question, they would immediately be knocked back to the end of the line behind all other patients. Chaos to order in 5 minutes flat. After that, the girl and the three fathers sat there and glared at each other, but they stayed calm and cooperative."

House shook his head. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I wish I'd been in the clinic today. I'll have to get hold of the security tape from that."

"It's worth seeing. Security came, of course, but they were late."

"Of course," replied the man who had faced gunpoint twice in the hospital due to security lapses.

"No need for them anyway. Cuddy had it all under control by then."

"She usually does." House stared off into the distance. "She really liked the piece?"

"Trust me, House. She loved it." Wilson moved into relationship counseling, ground that he felt extremely firm on. "Now, next thing you have to do is actually ask her out on a date."

House winced. "Tried that once with Cameron."

"But that was forced on you. Although you also acted like an idiot."

"Thanks," House replied. He leaned back against the couch cushions and surveyed the ceiling. "What if I act like an idiot again unintentionally?"

"Trust me, Cuddy's seen you be an idiot before. Just try to reach out, House. Try to show her it matters to you. She'll give you points for effort." The knock came on the door, and Wilson stood up to go pay the delivery man and get the pizza. "One big tip, though," he added as he came back across the room with the pizza box. "You pay. And not with her money that you swiped, either."

"Wilson, give me some credit," House said, sounding exasperated, then switched back into banter. "Actually, literally, it would be helpful. I accept Visa, Mastercard, and American Express."

"What do you actually do with your money?" Wilson handed him a slice of pizza. "Seriously, you're a highly paid physician. Plus book royalties and articles - I know your book from 10 years ago is still selling. Your income has to be way over your expenses, even with a big music and video allowance. What do you do with it?"

House retreated into his shell and took a bite of pizza. Wilson held his ground, suddenly determined that House was going to tell him one secret tonight, even if not one related to his childhood. "What do you do with it?" he repeated.

"I save it up," House mumbled finally.

"You what?"

"I save it up," he repeated, louder.

"Well by all means, don't let anyone catch you saving up money," Wilson quipped. This was a secret? House's attitude didn't match the insignificance of the revelation. "What if other people started doing that? What if we all did it? The country might have even more problems than it already does."

House put down his slice of pizza, Wilson's first clue that this actually was emotionally charged for him. The oncologist dropped the joking manner. "What are you saving for, House?" he asked softly.

House stared down at his leg. "So I can pay somebody to care when the leg totally gives out," he said flatly. Wilson put down his own pizza. "It's been 9 years, Wilson. It's getting worse. What do you think it's going to be like at 60? 70? When arthritis really sets in even worse than it already is?" Wilson opened his mouth, and House cut him off, suddenly angry. "And DON'T blame absolutely everything on the Vicodin. Vicodin doesn't make my back hurt, or my shoulder hurt, or my foot hurt, or my left leg start hurting now from taking so much pressure from the right. And I HAVE looked into trying other things. Ketamine. That drug trial for cancer patients. The spinal nerve. Not a week goes by that I'm not researching new advances in pain management. I'm not just choosing to live like this. Yes, I'm an addict, because the drugs do cause dependency, but it's not the same as the people out in back alleys who started out just looking to get high for fun. THIS ISN'T FUN FOR ME!" His voice had risen to nearly a shout at the end, and he paused, reining himself back in with difficulty, trying to slow his breathing. Wilson sat stunned into speechlessness. "So I'm saving up so when everybody gives up on me as just a drug addict who caused all my own problems, I can at least pay somebody to help me out, so I won't have to go into a nursing home."

Wilson took a deep breath. "House, I . . . I don't know what to say. I know your pain is real." House looked at him silently, skepticism in his eyes. "I'm worried about your liver with the Vicodin, but I do know you've tried other things. I'm sure that there is an emotional overlay at times, too, but I know you have a real physical problem. I'm sorry if concern has come across as judgmentalism." He saw House flinch at the word sorry, which escaped him before he could stop it.

"Do you remember Tritter?" House asked after the silence had built a minute.

"Of course."

"My shoulder was bothering me so much then. Even though I actually went to physio and had the strain confirmed medically, you and Cuddy both automatically thought it was only guilt. Actually, my shoulder was bothering me because Tritter halfway twisted that arm off while arresting me that night."

Wilson bit back the word sorry a second time. "I apologize, House. I should have asked you what was wrong instead of telling you." He suddenly realized even more how much Tritter had clearly reminded House of John. "And I never should have sold you out. Cuddy told me how Tritter started it." House looked down at his leg again. "But House, I'm not going to get tired of you. Cuddy isn't going to get tired of you. You don't have to worry about paying somebody to care."

House looked back up at him silently. Wilson abruptly realized that all he'd had to eat was hafl a slice of pizza, and he was still on the high-dose NSAIDs. "Go ahead and finish eating. You need more than that."

"So do you," House said quietly.

Wilson picked up his own unfinished piece, suddenly unsure what to do and sympathizing much more with Cuddy's comments about House's revelations. It might well be a good thing that she had been the recipient of more of them first hand. She had better instincts when blindsided than Wilson did.

Oddly, it was Wilson's discomfort that seemed to jolt House out of his own. "So," House said as he forced himself to pick up a piece of pizza, "any new candidates in the search for the Future Mrs. Ex-Wilson Number Four?"

Slowly they threaded their way through the minefield back to light conversational banter, and for the rest of that evening, Wilson firmly took Cuddy's advice and did not push House. Things almost seemed normal, but after House was in medicated sleep, Wilson lay on the couch and wondered exactly how often things had only seemed normal.

It was a long, hard night on the couch.


	32. Chapter 32

Wilson finally drifted off to sleep at around 5:00 a.m., and a clatter woke him up a few hours later. He bolted off the couch, startled out of his own recurrent nightmare in which he not only arrived late to the hospital but not wearing a tie. Breathing slowed and steadied as he recognized House's apartment and then looked at his watch. It was 7:30.

Water was running in the bathroom. He hurried down the hall to find House standing in front of the sink, inspecting the unstitched and healing cut in the mirror, while the bathtub filled behind him. "Good morning!" he said brightly to Wilson.

"Um, good morning." Wilson edged past him to stand at the toilet. "Are you okay?"

"Great. Perfectly fit and ready to head back to work today."

Wilson looked at his watch again pointedly. "It's 7:30, House. You never get up at 7:30, even when you're healthy."

"I don't usually get a solid night's sleep, either," House pointed out. "Or go to bed by 10:00."

True enough. His sleep problems had been chronic, yet another clue that they had missed. "Were you going to take a hot bath?"

"No, I just like to watch those wheels spin on my water meter," House replied, rolling his eyes.

"You could have woken me up."

"If I fell, I would have. I was going to leave the door open." House turned to look at Wilson directly instead of via the mirror. "Besides, you seemed pretty deeply asleep. I figured you needed it." He picked up the plastic bag and duct tape from the edge of the sink and began to wrap the cast, using his teeth as a second hand to handle the tape. "Go cook breakfast or something, Wilson. I'm fine."

Wilson had retreated to the doorway but not past it. "I want to see you get in."

"You know, if stuff like this turns you on, you could just watch cable." Wilson didn't budge. Cuddy had said it was his call whether House went back today or not, and he was going to be sure he made the right one. House sighed and finished undressing, then levered himself over the side of the tub, using his shower pipe as a support bar. It certainly wasn't as smoothly as he usually did it, especially having to use his right hand across his body to hold the bar instead of the wrapped-up left, but he didn't look in imminent danger, either. He settled down into the water with a sigh of contentment, feeling the heat soak into his leg. Wilson had taken the opportunity to survey the scar, too. It wasn't looking quite baseline yet, but definitely better. "So, did I pass the pop quiz?" House asked.

"I guess so. Only half days at first, Cuddy said." House splashed water at him, managing to get not only Wilson's legs but much of the floor wet, and Wilson retreated, though being sure to toss a towel down in the floor to soak up the puddle on his way out.

As he started breakfast in the kitchen, the oncologist thought again how life with House as a friend could leave you almost dizzy. Last night had been a shock, getting a full naked view of the gaping chasm in his friend's self-esteem. This morning, they were apparently back to mischievous, sarcastic House, a much more usual incarnation, as if last night hadn't even happened. Speaking of which, Wilson took the opportunity now to place a quick call to Cuddy, being sure to keep his voice down. Since House would be at the hospital today, it would be harder to have private talks with Cuddy there.

"Wilson? How are things?" She sounded brisk and efficient, the administrator ready to head off into her day. He could hear Rachel gurgling happily in the background.

"Better physically. He's taking a hot bath, was able to get into the tub by himself."

"He's already up?"

"That's what I thought. He pointed out, though, that he doesn't usually have a normal sleeping pattern. I think the zolpidem is doing him a lot of good - for the moment."

"Right. We'll try to wean that down the road, but the nightmares are so bad right now that I don't think he'd get much sleep at all otherwise. Zolpidem is a much safer sleep aid than morphine. I'll be glad when he gets into therapy."

"Me, too," the oncologist said with feeling. "I take back everything I said about wishing he'd open up to me as much as you. You're better at dealing with this in real time. I wound up sitting here with my mouth hanging open last night, unable to come up with anything to say. He actually was worried about me by the end of it, I think. He was the one trying to smooth things over and recover routine."

"What happened? Another dream? Flashback?" Her voice was worried.

"No." Wilson sighed. "I pushed him. I had decided that he was going to open up to me about something last night, even if it was something that didn't matter. Only I managed to pick something that did matter after all."

"What happened?" Cuddy persisted, trying to dissect his guilt away for a clear view of the core topic.

"I asked him what he did with his money. I mean, how could that have anything to do with his childhood? I figured it was safe. He'd been in a good mood and joking up until then. Then he locked up on me, and I refused to let it go and pushed him to an answer." He sighed. "He said he's saving it up so that when his leg is worse so he needs help but all his friends have left him alone and think he brought it on himself, he'll have enough to pay somebody to care."

He heard Cuddy's breath catch. "Oh, House. . . He's asked me several times over the last week when we're going to get tired of him."

"He really believes that, Cuddy. It was like listening to a diagnosis. No question at all in his mind. A lot of anger over his leg and me harping on the drug issues as a cause for all his problems, too." He sighed in turn. "I can't blame him for that. He also implied as part of that outburst that the pain has been worse lately, even before he fell. Specifically mentioned his back, shoulder, and foot, as well as starting in the left leg. And as a final note, when I tried to say I didn't question that he had actual physical problems, he said that his shoulder was hurting him back during the Tritter rampage not because of guilt but because Tritter roughed him up the night he arrested him."

Cuddy was silent for a moment, fighting her own guilt, then switched into diagnostic mode. "The therapy will help - I hope - but we need to be careful to not give him any clue he might read as us giving up on him or getting tired of it. Physically, I think we ought to do an MRI of the entire leg, not just the thigh. I never knew he had multiple old fractures on that foot; it's quite possible that he's developing arthritic changes from odd weightbearing. Maybe keeping on the NSAIDs long term would help. He's got to eat, though."

"Speaking of which, I'd better get breakfast going. I'll give him a ride in today and then take him home later. I think he's ready to go stir crazy sitting around here."

"Okay. I'll see you two in a little while." She hung up, and Wilson started making pancakes.

House limped into the kitchen about 10 minutes later, dressed in his usual working clothes. He was still limping more than usual, but he seemed stable enough on his feet now. "Almost ready," Wilson said, getting out plates.

House sat down. "So, you think I should ask her out on a date?"

"Cuddy?" House had apparently undergone another persona change, now to uncertain and advice-seeking House.

"No, you idiot. Brenda." Wilson chuckled at the image. "Of course, Cuddy. What would she want to do?"

"Oh, dinner at a nice restaurant. Make sure to pick one with food she would like. Try to think of things she likes to do - but don't try to be somebody you're not, either. She knows you, House, so you don't have to fake it. She likes you."

House fiddled with the slightly battered end of the cast. "You're sure she'd say yes?"

Wilson snorted. "House, believe me, she will say yes. And she will have a good time, too. I'll even offer baby-sitting services for whatever evening - Rachel is a neat kid." He put plates of pancakes on the table.

"What if I screw it up again?"

"What if you don't?" Wilson tossed back at him. "What if you two really could have a future together, one that she wants, too. Wouldn't that be worth trying for?" He picked up his fork. "Eat your breakfast. Trust me, House, it will be fine. You will make mistakes, and so will she, but mistakes don't have to ruin everything. Just let her know that you do care. That's all she needs to be sure of. Everything else can be worked out."

House took a bite. "Says the man who pays 3 alimonies."

"But I was never involved with Cuddy."

"True."

"Seriously, House, you have a much better track record than I do. You and Cuddy are made for each other. It can work."

"Going to send me a bill for relationship advice?" House said around a mouth of pancakes.

"No, I'll just pay it myself," Wilson quipped. House gave an appreciative grin, and they headed off into typical banter through the rest of the meal. Afterwards, Wilson went to take a quick shower, and House wandered around the living room, testing out the limits of his leg at the moment, thinking.

If it could work, wouldn't that be worth trying for? Cuddy had said nearly the same thing a few days ago about therapy. Of course, if it would work, it was worth trying for, both finally burying John and getting together with Cuddy. He just wished he was as sure as his friends were that either one had a good chance of success. On the other hand, what better way to prove John wrong than to succeed in a genuine relationship, something that John had not only told him repeatedly he would never do, but something John had never truly had himself. His marriage had been merely a charade, albeit a long-lasting one.

"House?" He was standing looking out the window, and he jumped, not having heard Wilson come up behind him. "You ready to leave?"

He shook off the contemplative mood. He was returning to work today, and that, at least, he knew he could do. And maybe, on the others, he could try. He would think about it. "Sure. Let's blow this joint."

They headed out together into the new day.


	33. Chapter 33

And we come to the end of the line for Pranks. Thanks so much, readers, for enjoying and commenting on the ride. I did warn you that it ended optimistically but open-ended, without things tied up neatly in a bow and all problems and relationships resolved. On the other hand, you have talked me into the sequel, which will be on its way shortly, and everything that you are going to be left saying, "Wait a minute . . ." will be further addressed there. It, too, will be a roller coaster, and not much will go smoothly. Major conflicts and confrontations in that one - it reaches for more than this one did on all levels. I really appreciate the reviews and the feedback for Pranks. This story was a sort of "getting my confidence back" experiment. You have been wonderful.

And now, the final chapter of When Pranks Go Wrong.

(H/C)

House entered the lobby of PPTH and immediately stiffened. Several people were _smiling, _even the nurses and the receptionist. Everybody looked up at him and Wilson entering, and while at least there wasn't a banner or balloons, whether bright or black, he was definitely the focus of attention. Far too much interest, too much curiosity, too much pity, even just based on the limited public knowledge of the last week. He had to stop this right now before somebody actually said . . .

"Dr. House, it's good to see you back."

Damn. Too late. He pulled himself up to his full 6 feet 3, and his eyes were blue lasers, dissecting with surgical precision the receptionist who was holding out his messages. She wilted under his glare. "Didn't Dr. Cuddy explain? A full week and a half of hot sex, and she was SO insatiable at night that I just had to rest up during the day." Cuddy herself, coming across the lobby, grimaced, although her eyes held both private understanding and private laughter.

"Dr. House, nice of you to FINALLY join us. I need you . . ."

"My God, woman, can't you wait for the privacy of your office? We could go into an exam room, I guess."

". . . to work on charting this morning," Cuddy continued, not missing a beat at his antics. He noted that at least half of the audience had turned away in exasperated disgust, though. The receptionist rolled her eyes.

"Charting? But _Mom. . ." _

"Your team's current patient is stable and improving, solved it late last night."

"Valvular defect causing the clots?" House was immediately interested, intent.

Cuddy shot him a suspicious glance. "How did you know? The team had already called you twice yesterday long before that possibility came up."

"I'm psychic," House replied. "For instance, right now I know that you aren't actually thinking about charting but about . . ."

"OFFICE!" she commanded. "Get up there now."

"And here I thought you were going to consign me to the 7th circle of hell that's known as the clinic." He started for the elevator. Wilson hung back to give the receptionist an apologetic smile. She shrugged, wondering why it was she'd missed the jerk in the first place.

"Nope," Cuddy replied, following him. "I'll just send you to the 6th circle of hell on your first day back. We'll save the 7th for next week." Actually, she was trying to spare his still-touchy leg for the moment, not to mention keeping the details of their clinic duty deal confidential. He recognized it and appreciated the thought - as long as she didn't say it out loud.

He stabbed the elevator button with his cane, and Cuddy came up alongside him. "Oh, and Dr. House," she said loudly.

"DON'T say it!" he implored her, ducking quickly into the opening elevator and stabbing the button for the fourth floor.

She smiled at him, facing the elevator with the lobby behind her, so that he alone saw her expression. "Welcome back."

House scowled and stabbed the button repeatedly, and the doors started to close. "Wait a minute!" Wilson called, hurrying to catch up.

"You've got two good legs. Take the STAIRS," House called as the doors snapped shut. On either side of the silver barrier, he and Cuddy both wore nearly identical private smiles for a second before erasing them and putting on their usual working faces.

(H/C)

House entered Diagnostics and skidded to a dead halt, abrupt enough that he stumbled slightly. "Who . . ." He stared at the table in the conference room. Here there actually were a few balloons as well as a cake bearing the message, "Welcome back, Dr. House." House's eyes widened, and Thirteen and Taub both cringed. Foreman was in the corner, watching this with almost scientific interest. "KUTNER!" House bellowed, as if the guilty fellow weren't sitting in the same room with an innocent, bright grin on his face.

"What? It's chocolate, even. Everybody likes chocolate."

House stabbed a balloon with his cane and immediately felt a bit better as he actually managed to pop the thing on one try. Not bad, given that the cast still was throwing his overall balance off slightly. It took two whacks to kill the second balloon, but still, not half bad. He turned his back to the table, limped over to the whiteboard, and studied the symptoms on it. "How's the patient?"

"Stabilized since last night," Foreman replied. "It wasn't the lungs. You were right."

"Of course." House erased the whiteboard and made four columns, labeled Homey, 13, Taub, and Kutner. "Okay, new differential. How should my back charting be divided up between these four?"

Foreman rolled his eyes. "I'm going to check on the patient. Page me if anything interesting comes up." He walked out. Taub and Thirteen sighed, and Taub went over to the desk in the corner, picking up a stack of old charts and bringing it back to the table to distribute.

Kutner, meanwhile, had been using his pocket knife to cut the cake, and when House turned from the whiteboard, he was holding out a paper plate. "I'll do some charts," he said, "but why not have some cake first?"

House eyed the slice as if it were a lab specimen, but he finally took it and sat down at the table, freeing his right hand from the cane to use the fork more easily. "Not bad," he admitted with his mouth full. Kutner grinned, as pleased as a school kid praised by his favorite teacher, and quickly pulled over a chart from the stack. The three fellows worked through their respective charts as House sat at the head of the table and ate cake while simply soaking up the familiarity of the office suite, his domain.

He was back where he belonged.

(H/C)

By the time lunch rolled around, he was starting to get tired, although he never would have admitted it. When Wilson popped in to offer to pay for lunch, House was glad to get away from the team. "How's it going?" the oncologist asked as they rode the elevator down.

"Kutner brought a cake," House said in disgust.

"I know. He asked me what your favorite flavor was." House socked the oncologist lightly on the shoulder with the cast. "Seriously, how are you feeling?"

"Perfect." The slight edge on the response answered Wilson's question much more accurately than the word did. The elevator door opened, and they headed for the cafeteria.

"We're in luck. There's an empty booth over there," Wilson commented as they entered. The cafeteria was fairly full, but there were several options still left for seating. Wilson didn't actually suggest that House avoid standing in line for several minutes - if he had, he knew House would have refused just to be contrary - but he was glad to see House head over to claim the booth in question after hesitating for a second, leaving him to go through the line for both of them. What with the cast, House couldn't have carried a tray anyway. Wilson knew what his friend wanted already, of course. Reuben sandwich, dry, no pickles.

The line was pretty long, and it was 5 minutes before Wilson joined him. "I'll take you home after we eat," he reminded his friend, and House scowled. "Cuddy's orders, remember? You're only supposed to put in half days for the first few."

"Can't leave quite yet," House replied around a mouthful of sandwich. "I want to talk to Cuddy."

"She's at a lunch meeting with some donors," Wilson said.

"I know. I checked her schedule."

"You'll see her tonight anyway," Wilson pointed out, but House shook his head.

"I want to talk to her before I leave. Not after I've had all afternoon with nothing to do but get cold feet."

Wilson nodded. "Might be a good idea. Keep in mind, though, she is going to say yes. You have nothing to lose here, House."

"Maybe not in asking, but the actual date . . . " House fiddled with his food, his attention suddenly focused on his plate.

"When were you thinking about going out? I have a good reason for asking, remember. Babysitting."

"Next week some time, probably. Maybe next Friday. I wanted to give it a few more days . . ." House abruptly trailed off, not actually admitting that he didn't feel 100% yet, but Wilson heard the thought.

"That sounds good. Now remember, you wear nice clothes. Don't insult her or the waiters or anybody in the restaurant. Open doors, be a gentleman."

"I thought you said she didn't want me to be someone I wasn't," House reminded him.

"She doesn't," Wilson assured him. "But every now and then, she'll like to know that you care enough to try. You can revert to your old self afterward, but she'll appreciate the effort." Wilson continued through Dating 101 over the meal, and House sat unusually quietly and listened. He hoped his friend was right about all this and that Cuddy's interest would stay strong when the guilt had started to wear off.

(H/C)

Cuddy entered her office after the donor luncheon and sighed as she realized that House was sitting in the chair in front of her desk. "What are you doing in here?"

"Waiting for you," he replied.

"I thought I locked the office."

"Must have thought wrong," he replied with that look of impish innocence that never failed to kick her pulse up a bit, though whether in attraction or annoyance, she wasn't quite sure.

She walked around her desk and sat down to face him. "How are you feeling?"

"Glad to be back, even if I was in the 6th circle of hell all morning." His eyes fell, and he fiddled with the head of his cane. "Cuddy . . . " he started, and then trailed off.

Her interest immediately piqued. Impish House was in her office all the time, but uncertain House was a different story entirely. "What is it?"

He took a deep breath. "Would you like to go out to dinner sometime?" he rattled off with the speed of a machine gun, making it about 3 syllables.

She had to freeze the words mentally and play them back more slowly. "Would I like to go out to dinner sometime?" she repeated, hopeful but wanting to make sure she had heard it right.

"Sure, why not?"

"You mean a real dinner? At a restaurant? Like a date?"

House abruptly remembered denying once to Cameron that an outing would be a date, but Cuddy deserved the truth, deserved an honest preview so she had a legitimate chance to turn him down and spare herself. "Yes," he said simply, eyes still on his cane, nervous hands quite conscious of their handicap at the moment.

She smiled broadly. "I'd love to, House."

His head came up, and his eyes met hers, searching, gauging her sincerity. She waited for him, and finally, he began to relax. "Good," he stated. "Next Friday night, maybe? Wilson will babysit."

"I'll reserve next Friday night right now," she said, noting it immediately on her calendar. She didn't point out that she'd be seeing him tonight anyway in the meantime. She understood as well as he did that this was a whole different level.

"Great!" Her phone rang at that moment, and he stood up a bit stiffly and waited for her to conclude a quick conversation.

"I'm looking forward to it, House," she assured him as she hung up. "Did you want something else? Not that I'm trying to get rid of you, but I have a meeting in 10 minutes, and you need to go home."

"One other thing," he said, and then hesitated, letting the silence expand.

"Which is?"

He grinned at her, impish House back. "I need to do a brain biopsy." She knew what he actually was asking. He wanted to try taking things further, but he also didn't want to lose their working relationship, their mutually enjoyed give-and-take. Nor did she.

She gave a professionally exasperated sigh. "I thought your patient was getting better."

"This one is, but I'm sure I can find _somebody_ who needs a brain biopsy."

She shook her head vigorously. "Forget it, House." Her eyes met his in confirmation. Status more would not destroy their working status quo.

He smiled, a genuine smile that went all the way to his eyes and melted her. "I'll see you later, Cuddy."

"See you later, House," she replied. He headed out of her office, then paused with one hand on the doorknob, waiting.

Cuddy already had turned her attention to the work on her desk. Where was that form she'd been filling out right before her meeting? Questioning her memory, she opened her center desk drawer to see if she'd filed it - and her desk drawer immediately collapsed, dumping its entire contents between her feet in a spectacularly satisfying clatter.

House edged on out the office door, unable to hide the smile.

(H/C)

Preview of coming attractions: Desperado. House is in therapy. Blythe is in Princeton. Everything is in turmoil.


End file.
